Constantly aware
of my
input
and output,
I am the most inefficient
worker bee.
Fur wet with honey,
I cling to the insides of
hives and lose
my wings,
unable to peel them back
away from one another.

A fortress much more a home
than a homicide,
rose thorns are hardly my sting,
so I weave in and out
of their buds and barbed wire.
I am not supposed to feel
a thing.

I die for my cause.
I am what I make.

I forage in the afternoon,
and then free my sting
from my skin
decidedly.