The Meadow

The bee told me there was nothing to fear.

We could both romp in the meadow.

It was our playground

and if I got stung

it was a mistake.

"Mine or yours?" I asked.

The bee said he couldn't point fingers

as he had none.

I listened to the buzz of his departure

as I considered the meadow,

so drawn to it

yet so afraid.

The buzzing grew louder and stronger

the bees seeming to multiply before my very eyes,

yet my feet, still only two.

My feet knew fear

had felt sting.

I had always thought to save the feet

but never considered to save the bee.

If I romped slowly

with considerate feet

would it still be fun?

I realized then

that too narrow focus on feet or bee

was the thief of joy

so why go to the meadow at all?

Or...

I could romp through the meadow knowing

freedom and pain play hand in hand.

You can't have one without the other

and there isn't always fault in it...

isn't always intent.

My feet need the meadow,

the meadow needs the bee,

and we will just do our best by each other.

Dissociating

I watch the light

leak through the cracks of flesh walls.

I cannot contain it

and I cannot find more.

I am the vessel of darkness,

it's steward,

curator.

It is the museum I visit

with no placards to explain the awful black voids

where art should hang.

I don't want to visit the museum anymore.

I don't want to keep paying with my life.

I should burn it down...

let the fire be my light

and the ashes

my masterpiece.