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Meliponini

She's a shell, you know.

Some sort of fat humpty dumpty look a like
skin un-kissed by the warmth of the sun. She's never seen
what its like to allow the dimples to careen into deep valleys
whiten the glazed over eyes of youth in almost porcelain enamels
challenge the hurried hours in a curl of a moist lip.
who knows what enters the mind
at the middle of the playground
dust and dirt kicked up to the pressed starchiness
and itchiness of stockings. A reminder of delicate legs
and shapely hips, bursting out to enter adolescence but
pulled back in ribbons and plaits worn in her time.

they scream at her, you know.

some kind of words learned from their environment
where the mother is a bitch from handing the daddies their plates cold
the father is a motherfucker from a stain of red on a collar
the dog is a shitter from a pound where only mixed breeds die
and the child still lays in the womb as audio
obscenities blast auto-tune in its fetal positioned ears.
something about the swarming
reminds her of the beauty of bees.
she remembers the fuzzy delicateness of wings,
the instant glide buzz buzz buzzing around 
until she receives a memory of how
they sting
sticks and stones
will break my bones
but words will never hurt me.
She'll keep humming away. 
The reciprocity of bees.

it doesn't hurt, you know.

those words. Because a silly little nursery rhyme
formed on a playground will magically un-break that shell.
fix her up all brand new, like she never fell off the wall
and some handsome shining knight is waiting for her,
rose in hand because that's what all the books say. 
they say. 
she inhales trying to remember the scent but can't.
who really cares about the velvet of the rose
when it has thorns? its cadence of two lovers dancing
between romance and forgiveness is only given in the 
gift of a rose. Besides, her favorite flower is the gerber daisy.
Yes, all will be better now.
Imagination has a way of doing that. The brain will
trick me into the self belief that I just wasn't stung
and was given honey instead. That I will remember its oozing
sweetness of nectar gliding down my throat
a treat to be given on a warm summer day.

she's a shell, you know.

beaten to death by invisible 
sticks
stones with glass windows
and no apparent door to open wide
and pretty soon
all that's left are words
fired back in the reciprocity
of bees.

-b.r.rivera
#30in30
5 of 30, April 2012

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