Bees
I see bees. Bees swarming frantically.
Slithering into the cracks of his yellow faded house, still bright from the light that bounces to my eyes.
I see bees on his window pane, not only outside, but inside, too.
Bees, who have worked so hard to push through his molding walls just to gain access to the bigger and much warmer hive of the man who used to live inside.
And I see bees colliding, crashing into every solid thing there is in his backyard.
They bash their heads against his old rusting van and constantly tap against his crumbling crutches.
And they never seem to stop getting lost in the trees and vines and brush that
Slowly eat away at his boards and his chairs and his pipes.
His five, old, broken trashcans and his metal contraptions that seem to twist towards the sky
And my beach ball I lost back there when I was seven, although you can’t see it anymore.
It was probably eaten by all the rats and raccoons and other creatures who constantly stalk back there night and day.
When I lost that ball, my cousins and I, we were going to go on a rescue mission.
Yes indeed! Up the stone walls, skim our way on the top until we reached the toilet,
That rested on his metal boxes, right next to his broken glass shed that held all his empty old beer Bottles, and then we’d make our way down from there.
But it was scary, we didn’t know what was back there!
Sure the bees hadn’t appeared yet, but there were other creatures that loomed in the dark, Wilderness that was his backyard so we thought better of it and climbed back down the wall.
The last kind of bees that I see, are the dead ones.
The ones that crumple on our porch or sag and wilt in a big pile in our backyard or the ones we see sneak their way into our house, always under warm spots of light, except for the one who died in our refrigerator.
That day there were more dead bees than I could count.
While taking my dog out I had to step on my tippy toes just so I didn’t get stung.
And there was one on our piano, Shriveled up and shedding yellow and black flecks.
It was probably a message letting me know that he was gone.
For that day, the police officers came to take him away, sprawled out on the porch, flies circling his head.
They took him.
Took him and left his car, and his trailer and his wood and his chairs and his metal and toilet and empty beer bottles and his bees. Left them all for us to stare in shock at through our glassy windows, as if he were still there.
Slithering into the cracks of his yellow faded house, still bright from the light that bounces to my eyes.
I see bees on his window pane, not only outside, but inside, too.
Bees, who have worked so hard to push through his molding walls just to gain access to the bigger and much warmer hive of the man who used to live inside.
And I see bees colliding, crashing into every solid thing there is in his backyard.
They bash their heads against his old rusting van and constantly tap against his crumbling crutches.
And they never seem to stop getting lost in the trees and vines and brush that
Slowly eat away at his boards and his chairs and his pipes.
His five, old, broken trashcans and his metal contraptions that seem to twist towards the sky
And my beach ball I lost back there when I was seven, although you can’t see it anymore.
It was probably eaten by all the rats and raccoons and other creatures who constantly stalk back there night and day.
When I lost that ball, my cousins and I, we were going to go on a rescue mission.
Yes indeed! Up the stone walls, skim our way on the top until we reached the toilet,
That rested on his metal boxes, right next to his broken glass shed that held all his empty old beer Bottles, and then we’d make our way down from there.
But it was scary, we didn’t know what was back there!
Sure the bees hadn’t appeared yet, but there were other creatures that loomed in the dark, Wilderness that was his backyard so we thought better of it and climbed back down the wall.
The last kind of bees that I see, are the dead ones.
The ones that crumple on our porch or sag and wilt in a big pile in our backyard or the ones we see sneak their way into our house, always under warm spots of light, except for the one who died in our refrigerator.
That day there were more dead bees than I could count.
While taking my dog out I had to step on my tippy toes just so I didn’t get stung.
And there was one on our piano, Shriveled up and shedding yellow and black flecks.
It was probably a message letting me know that he was gone.
For that day, the police officers came to take him away, sprawled out on the porch, flies circling his head.
They took him.
Took him and left his car, and his trailer and his wood and his chairs and his metal and toilet and empty beer bottles and his bees. Left them all for us to stare in shock at through our glassy windows, as if he were still there.
Fluffy
My First Love is a painful thing to explain.....
They say that for the first four months, your crush is just that, a crush,... But once you pass that boundary, the chemicals in your brain become strong, strong to the point where, scientifically, you are considered in love. Well that sucks because that means that I’ve been in love for the last seven years and I hadn’t even realized!
I’ve tried to give up, let it go. He will never like me, I imagine myself saying. It is simply impossible. But then I see him in person again and realize how useless my attempts are.
It’s not fair.... I feel helpless and small. I want to fly yet I’m tied down by this one stupid, gorgeous weight who unintentionally cages me, keeps me rooted to this feeling.
Everyone mocks me, but how can they not? I am pathetic, an ant trapped within a chalk circle, able to pass whenever I wish, but emotionally stuck.
There are other boys, sweeter and kinder than him,.... definitely more available. But my hormones refuse to let go of his image, his voice, and I hate it.
I hate his hair, perfect and shiny as sun rays dance and gleam off the tips. I hate his eyes with smile lines curving ‘round the sides and his skin, looking so soft at the touch, not that I’ll ever find out.
I hate his voice, harmonious even when not singing, I can’t help but perk up at the sound. And his smile,.. God that SMILE! Even when it’s not for me I can’t help, but to shudder.
It’s like a drug, feeding my emotions, leaving me mystified and callus and alone. My mind says no but my heart still goes on working, creating chemicals that only get stronger by the day.
I need help, I know. I need to just let go and live life.... I want to! I really do... but I am trapped, I try to fly yet I am tied down by this one stupid, gorgeous weight, and I don’t know how to set myself free.
They say that for the first four months, your crush is just that, a crush,... But once you pass that boundary, the chemicals in your brain become strong, strong to the point where, scientifically, you are considered in love. Well that sucks because that means that I’ve been in love for the last seven years and I hadn’t even realized!
I’ve tried to give up, let it go. He will never like me, I imagine myself saying. It is simply impossible. But then I see him in person again and realize how useless my attempts are.
It’s not fair.... I feel helpless and small. I want to fly yet I’m tied down by this one stupid, gorgeous weight who unintentionally cages me, keeps me rooted to this feeling.
Everyone mocks me, but how can they not? I am pathetic, an ant trapped within a chalk circle, able to pass whenever I wish, but emotionally stuck.
There are other boys, sweeter and kinder than him,.... definitely more available. But my hormones refuse to let go of his image, his voice, and I hate it.
I hate his hair, perfect and shiny as sun rays dance and gleam off the tips. I hate his eyes with smile lines curving ‘round the sides and his skin, looking so soft at the touch, not that I’ll ever find out.
I hate his voice, harmonious even when not singing, I can’t help but perk up at the sound. And his smile,.. God that SMILE! Even when it’s not for me I can’t help, but to shudder.
It’s like a drug, feeding my emotions, leaving me mystified and callus and alone. My mind says no but my heart still goes on working, creating chemicals that only get stronger by the day.
I need help, I know. I need to just let go and live life.... I want to! I really do... but I am trapped, I try to fly yet I am tied down by this one stupid, gorgeous weight, and I don’t know how to set myself free.
goofy
Cats are curious.
Or at least that’s what people say.
Cats are curious, with their nine lives and blazing yellow eyes.
My cat had yellow eyes, bright and round, two full Halloween moons
Peaking out from beneath my covers
Tickling my feet as she wrestled with the sheets, trying to get comfy
But her body wouldn’t agree with her.
Her eyes would puff up like popcorn and her walk was stiff legged
Fourteen years of living was already rough enough on her,
The cells that continuously multiplied within her body only made it worse
My mom was the one who took her.
She walked on legs almost as straight as the cats
Tears drifting in steady lines down her cheeks.
This cat was with my mom before I was even in the world
Before I breathed the my first harsh breath of life
Before I saw my first ray of blistering light.
She walked with that Cat, up the stairs and into the vet,
Goofy, who was oblivious to what was going to happen next,
Still curious, but only a single life left to lose.
And that cat came home still as a black lake on a moonless night
My brother and I, we could’ve sworn we saw her chest rise and fall, just slightly.
But my mother said, “no”.
I don’t think she wanted to believe she was still alive, even though she wasn’t,
It was just too hard,
Just too painful to think of losing her again.
Cats are curious. My cat was curious.
Only it wasn’t my cat, it was my mother’s.
And my cat, unlike others, only had one life, not nine.
But, if I remember correctly, my mother made sure it was a good one.
Or at least that’s what people say.
Cats are curious, with their nine lives and blazing yellow eyes.
My cat had yellow eyes, bright and round, two full Halloween moons
Peaking out from beneath my covers
Tickling my feet as she wrestled with the sheets, trying to get comfy
But her body wouldn’t agree with her.
Her eyes would puff up like popcorn and her walk was stiff legged
Fourteen years of living was already rough enough on her,
The cells that continuously multiplied within her body only made it worse
My mom was the one who took her.
She walked on legs almost as straight as the cats
Tears drifting in steady lines down her cheeks.
This cat was with my mom before I was even in the world
Before I breathed the my first harsh breath of life
Before I saw my first ray of blistering light.
She walked with that Cat, up the stairs and into the vet,
Goofy, who was oblivious to what was going to happen next,
Still curious, but only a single life left to lose.
And that cat came home still as a black lake on a moonless night
My brother and I, we could’ve sworn we saw her chest rise and fall, just slightly.
But my mother said, “no”.
I don’t think she wanted to believe she was still alive, even though she wasn’t,
It was just too hard,
Just too painful to think of losing her again.
Cats are curious. My cat was curious.
Only it wasn’t my cat, it was my mother’s.
And my cat, unlike others, only had one life, not nine.
But, if I remember correctly, my mother made sure it was a good one.