Amber Blindfold

16 August 2018

I am afraid of the bees. I can’t pass through them. My hair doesn’t coil into antennae and I have no wings; my vertebrae is flat and fearful and all too human. Oh, how they swarm and shiver in golden rivers. Dew drop, dew drop, forbidden fruity sweat. You traverse through them. They are not your enemies, but mere faces admiring the jewel behind the glass cabinet of your eye. I call to you, but you walk among them: the sea of fluttering things, the sunset-coloured pollen. Grasses stir beneath helicopter wings. Petals spread their lovely legs—we all give in eventually. You rip the chains from their daisy locks and poke green legs through green bodies. From these blustering blooms you create diadems, and like magnets, bees and bodies are drawn to you. Their black and yellow stripes grow bolder, embracing you and warning me: bright, fuzzy prison-bars. I step forward and lurch back. I am stone, rock, pebble. The nectar of your eyes drip, drip, drip down that apple-like canvas. When you finally look at me you steal my upturned mouth. Now, you see an empty field. Now, you see only a world of yellow.

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