Nest

The wasps are under my skin again,

their buzzing taking over

and vibrating my brain into ice,

breath cool but scorched words.

Heat in my face, on my tongue, on my lips

and only a dark cloud in my belly to blame.

I know the wasps will dissolve into sweet figs

tomorrow, or maybe the next day,

but I wish the ointment I brew from them

could be given now, with a kiss of apology

even though you always say you don’t need it.

Advertisement

Thoughts of past me trying to deal with society

Inside I bubble back all the things I want to say and do,

wondering if there’ll ever be a time

I won’t have to hold my tongue like this.

It’s so absurd that I can’t be myself

all to fit in with your pristine white glove ideas

of what is and isn’t appropriate —

what is and isn’t normal.

Forgive

Forgive the way I find it uncomfortable to be around people,

forgive the way I dress, comfortable loose t-shirts and harem pants,

forgive the fact I don’t wax, shaving my legs only when I feel,

forgive my inability to be okay with strangers touching me,

forgive my blunt nature, stating what I think,

forgive my lack of make-up, wearing just my face,

forgive me for not understanding ‘obvious’ directions,

forgive me for not getting your witty jokes,

forgive me from stepping aside when you get too close,

forgive me for being me, acting ‘separate’ or ‘aloof’.

 

Wait.

No, not forgive.

Accept.

 

Accept me, you shit.