The Sting

Ah! The sting.

As the seaweed strikes the unexpected foot.

The random pangs of conflict with you flare up so reliably often that my will to enter the otherwise sunny and soothing ocean shrivels up a little more each time.

As salt enters the papercut.

We begin to construct, and construct something delicious. We begin to create, and create something beautiful. But then, an unhealed wound pops up out of nowhere and the searing reminder of its very unwanted presence sends us back to square one. We rush for a bandaid solution, but the salt still remains within.

As the bee stupidly strikes.

Despite no good coming out for either party, we seem much too willing to kill ourselves for petty causes, just like the bee. However, unlike the bee, it seems to repeat again and again, slowly chipping away at what little sense and sanity we had to begin with.

As water enters the lungs.

Oh, I cannot breathe. Snotty sobs and puny gasps for air in between. My head lightens as it sinks and I lean into the unconsciousness, hoping to arrive at an oasis away from here. To straggle back onto dry land and figure out just how far away I’ve drifted.

As the thorn pricks.

What looks beautiful, feels sacred and smells like the heavens may just be concealing shards of spite and resentment.

Oh, how I detest the sting.

Because I want, for once, to experience sweet serenity with you.

The seaweed may be there, but so is the celestial salt water.

The papercut remains, but as does the sacred seasoning.

The bee may strike, but it also pollinates.

Water drowns the lungs but feeds the cells.

And no amount of thorns could ever take away from the divinity of the flower.

But, no matter how hard I try to find beauty within it all,

The sting still stays. And it really really hurts.