Living undiagnosed
is a lot like
differentiating wasps and bees
when I forget my glasses
and can’t see the stinger
stuck in my left cheek that
keeps striking hot
against my face,
Flushed.

I keep thinking of veering
into florist shops,
Painting myself with
pollen like Van Gogh,
And everything blurs with breaths
and bees and blurs mix
in my always-anxious mind
into blurring and bleeding.

Bleeding my
honey
over dead roses:

things I thought were real
when I was stinger-stuck.