You liked to look at old things like houses.

It was like a system check to make sure you were alive.

Then one night, while I was resting

under the hazy watch of a dark sky,

you made my body your house.

You, like a swarm of bees, infiltrated my flesh.

Dug tunnels through my soft skin.

Hollowed out my rib cage.

Made cuts on my scalp and picked at my once golden hair.

But my combs did not know the sluggish ooze of sweet honey,

nor did they know the gentle touch of a working bee.

But they were dried, and callous

and broken

You, the swarm of bees, wanted no honey.

You wanted the hive.

You wanted to make knives from my ribs

and a necklace from my teeth

and a rope from my hair.

To you I became an old thing

once there was nothing left.

I didn't make you feel alive

I had nothing left to give

I had been a some horrible creature

being selfish for deteriorating.

For I had merely become a skeleton

trying to survive

trying to be a good house

for a swarm of bees.