I am a bee who has left the hive
and doesn’t like flowers.
Doesn’t like their colors.
Doesn’t like their smell.
Doesn’t like their texture.
Ew. They just irk me.
I hate the flowers. I hate the honey. I hate the nectar.
I hate the sweetness.
I don’t like the hive and I don’t like the honey.
I don’t like the tribe and I don’t like the table.
I don’t like the community and I don’t like the comfort.
I’m so uncomfortable and I love hating it.
So I journey off into the wind and the green horizon fading into gray. I search for the end of the gray–the origin of gray.
The grayest gray. My home.
I am at home in the cold. It makes me feel warm.
I’d like to wrap up in the warmth of old ice cubes of lonely.
Build a fort out of the ancient stones I find in the Gray City where I will conquer and rule no one.
Disallow fire. Nothing burns.
Except the yearning in my heart
to return to the hive.
Off on another journey
to old home
where I will find something new
or die on the way.