Bee Sting

Trigger Warning: self harm, depression, animal violence

 

Once upon a time there was a girl, who watched the same sad movies over and over again, because she had already decided slitting her wrists was too messy and impractical. She didn’t like to listen to music, because pretty lyrics made her cry. And she cried almost every day. 

 

She was afraid of bees. She had never been stung by one, which was partially why she was afraid of them. She didn’t know how badly it would feel if she were to be stung, but she had the feeling it would be an unpleasantness that would maybe be bearable.

 

Once upon a time there was a boy. He knew a great deal and built wonderful things with his hands. He was smart and good and brave, but maybe not sure of the strength of his own heart.

 

He was a gardener, and so he loved bees. They helped his plants grow and make food that could feed the ones he loved. He knew bees could sting, but accepted it as a part of what they were as living creatures. 

 

This girl loved this boy. Not just because he was tall and handsome with lovely bronze skin, but because his smile was kind and she felt proud whenever she made him laugh. She loved the wonderful things he made with his hands, and how she felt when he put her hands in his.

 

This boy loved this girl. She was many shattered pieces strung together, but her love was fierce; almost fearsome in its strength despite her brokenness. She was a storm of all the emotions that could ever rage in a single human and he saw how she tried to gently mold those feelings into something good and whole. 

 

The world was not made for two people to love each other easily. They had tried countless times, through tears and angry silences, written messages and conversations that turned in circles on themselves, only to end and begin again. Her heart ripped apart countless times, trying to coincide her manic internal world with a peace that wouldn’t destroy their bond.

 

And then there are other things, like Time, to consider. Money. Knowledge. Peace of Mind, and Security. And for her most definitely, Sanity. There never seemed to be enough of any these for the moment to be right. When would the moment be right? Could it ever possibly be? There was a fog of doubt that made it hard to see if they could ever have these things together. 

 

What is the point of love?

Is it a temporary joy or a commitment to something more subtle?

Is it a merry splash on the surface of a lake, or smooth strong currents at darker depths?

She wondered if he was too hesitant to dive deeper.

She knew what happens when you let go with the intention to drown 

And how sometimes you float instead.

You can’t ask another person to be as reckless.

But always being safe

Comes at the price of never feeling the exhilaration of being free.

She remembered the day they went to IKEA

Recreating scenes out of context from a story 

That didn’t have a happy ending.

Unsure of the plot

Twisting possibilities yet still crashing into mirrors

Her reflection broken into shards of reality.

 

After they had left the store, she went home and wrote a poem. There was a bee flying around the ceiling of her bedroom, which seemed to be a waking-dream metaphor for something she couldn’t specifically identify.

 

“I can spend hours on end staring at colorful nothing.

Numbness is the most heavy feeling in the world.

It feels nothing like sadness.

It is the death of hope.

It is an anvil that rests gently like a feather on my chest. 

I can’t move,

My breath is slow and drags like I inhaled liquid smoke.”

 

The bee flew behind the blinds of her window. She got up from where she was perched on the bed and took a shoe by the heel and killed the bee, breaking two panels of the blinds in the process. There was a clear liquid on the window where the bee had been crushed before it died. It lay motionless curled up on the sill.

 

She looked at it for a while and left it there, only faintly appreciating the damage she had left elsewhere.

 

“Oh to be young, and to feel love’s keen sting.”