Sep 15
She climbs Rae Hill alone.
Dusty rose parka, fur-trimmed, stitched with bears.
Mother’s coat, draped around jutting bones.
It creaks with memory.
It holds her upright.
The world below fractured—
friends turned to factions,
civil discourse to war,
until the orange sky burst,
radiant, radioactive, and bleak.
She carries them still.
In breath. In bone.
In the hiss of her Walkman.
Tiger Lily // Doom & Bloom // Vol. 1
A mixtape made by stragglers,
who danced in arcades,
who kissed under fluorescents,
who screamed poetry into payphones.
The tape crackles.
The bees rise.
Green sweat shimmer, orbiting her head.
Not chaos—choreography.
They hum in flickerhymn frequencies.
They crown her in silence.
No elders. No banners.
No one but bees to witness
the prayer upon her scabbed knees.
Even the gods ignored her plight,
ignored the blight of the whole world.
She maps the city below.
Not with satellites, but with swarm.
The water tower—let it flow.
Top Hat Arcade. Stardust Lounge.
Thomson Press. Schumacher School.
All gone. All glowing in bee-geometry.
They put her on a throne—
a blood child made to own.
But when war came, she was left alone.
To fight for her right to exist.
She was no drone.
To each his own—
but hers was forged in frost and flame.
She has plasma eyes,
not for seeing, but for searing.
Kerosene smiles,
not for comfort, but combustion.
The bees orbit her like electrons.
She is not warmth.
She is ignition.
Ash Vale climbs poplar trees, hoping to see.
A bounty hunter by trade,
he renege’d—against pay, against boss—
to witness her.
Blue eyes like icebergs,
freezing all emotion in place.
He watches from the treeline.
He does not speak.
He becomes part of the myth.
She sees him.
She does not flinch.
The bees shift formation:
Witness Accepted.
She rises.
She descends Rae Hill,
not as a child,
not as a fugitive,
but as the Emerald Queen.
Her decree is not shouted.
It is carried in voltage.
In mixtape hiss.
In bee-wing rhythm.
In every place she reclaims,
every name she remembers,
every sigil the swarm draws in dusk.
Dusty rose parka, fur-trimmed, stitched with bears.
Mother’s coat, draped around jutting bones.
It creaks with memory.
It holds her upright.
The world below fractured—
friends turned to factions,
civil discourse to war,
until the orange sky burst,
radiant, radioactive, and bleak.
She carries them still.
In breath. In bone.
In the hiss of her Walkman.
Tiger Lily // Doom & Bloom // Vol. 1
A mixtape made by stragglers,
who danced in arcades,
who kissed under fluorescents,
who screamed poetry into payphones.
The tape crackles.
The bees rise.
Green sweat shimmer, orbiting her head.
Not chaos—choreography.
They hum in flickerhymn frequencies.
They crown her in silence.
No elders. No banners.
No one but bees to witness
the prayer upon her scabbed knees.
Even the gods ignored her plight,
ignored the blight of the whole world.
She maps the city below.
Not with satellites, but with swarm.
The water tower—let it flow.
Top Hat Arcade. Stardust Lounge.
Thomson Press. Schumacher School.
All gone. All glowing in bee-geometry.
They put her on a throne—
a blood child made to own.
But when war came, she was left alone.
To fight for her right to exist.
She was no drone.
To each his own—
but hers was forged in frost and flame.
She has plasma eyes,
not for seeing, but for searing.
Kerosene smiles,
not for comfort, but combustion.
The bees orbit her like electrons.
She is not warmth.
She is ignition.
Ash Vale climbs poplar trees, hoping to see.
A bounty hunter by trade,
he renege’d—against pay, against boss—
to witness her.
Blue eyes like icebergs,
freezing all emotion in place.
He watches from the treeline.
He does not speak.
He becomes part of the myth.
She sees him.
She does not flinch.
The bees shift formation:
Witness Accepted.
She rises.
She descends Rae Hill,
not as a child,
not as a fugitive,
but as the Emerald Queen.
Her decree is not shouted.
It is carried in voltage.
In mixtape hiss.
In bee-wing rhythm.
In every place she reclaims,
every name she remembers,
every sigil the swarm draws in dusk.
