the beekeeper.

bees ii.

i guess i should listen to those angels on my shoulders.
they keep whispering that you love the hum of sweet spring honeybees,
but i've been ignoring them for quite some time.

people love honey
and people love spring
but people don't desire bloated buzzing bees that have tempers as thin as spider webs
and hate just as strong.
they love the soothing sound the insects make
but they fear their stingers and venom.

i suppose i just associated you with the rest of them.
after all,
why would a man like you crave my honey?
my bees,
with their carnivorous nature,
create honey less sweet than the others.
their aching rage seeps into their nectar-filled bellies
and the honey they regurgitate is bittersweet and sickening.
so why,
why would you want that?

that's why i ignored the angels that were answering my prayers with a simple:
"he wants you."
want me?
want my bees,
my hate,
the canyons along my thighs and hips and breasts,
the tumors dripping off of my body,
the holes in my stomach,
the smoke in my eyes,
the pills in my kidneys,
the alcohol in my liver,
the sheep that lives inside of my chest,
the lack of femininity oozing from my voice?
you,
a handsome, tall,
young pharmacist,
you want me?

do you blame me for not believing them?
for not heeding their words
or taking the chances they demanded i grab hold of?
everyone before has hated my tongue and the insects it often fails to hold back.
why would you be any different?

but i realize now
that you do want me,
as baffling and unnatural as it may be.
you do want the coziness of my skin
and you do want the angel's kisses on my arms.
you do want the sunflowers in my eyes
and you do want my company,
and by God,
you want my fucking bees.

think twice before you step into the hive, baby,
because honey is sticky and addicting,
and if you decide to part forever with a honeycomb or two,
you'll be scarred with stingers and jagged hexagons.
my bees love you,
they do, oh, they do,
but they will form a fine frenzy the second you harm their queen.