The Hive by Alex A
She is sat in her attic, crumpled
against the wooden rafters,
and she's staring at the wasp's nest
in the corner. She itches all the time.
She meaning you. Her ears ring
and her arms sting like fresh wounds
from all the skin she has been picking at.
There are wasps in her hair. Burrowing
into her scalp and clinging to her skin.
Her bones ache with disturbance
and yet still the hive sings.
You are in your attic and you
have run out of incense.
You need a break. You need someone
to grab hold of your face and punch
your teeth out. You need boots to crush
cigarette butts underfoot. You need
more incense. The fabric on your frame
hangs loose like curtain drapes, filthy
and unforgiving. The cashier looks
bored half to death. "Two teeth,"
He states. Still, the hive sings.
She reaches her hand into her mouth,
blood crusted around her gums
and on her lips. Her stubby nails
claw around, finding a grip on
the base of a molar. She pulls, hard,
and the bloodied bone clatters
on the countertop. Blood fills her mouth,
and she swallows. The second tooth
that uproots is already stained red.
The wasps rejoice at the taste,
metallic and fleshy. They taunt me,
they do. The floor is wet. I step
carefully, smudging my red footprints
as the cashier gathers up my teeth.
I am still you. The hive still sings.
He sorts them into boxes. For him,
it is a Tuesday afternoon and he is nearing
the end of his shift. He has a cold,
cold smile. He glances up, gaze hooked
on my hair. The wasps are massive
and loud, crawling between my lips.
Then he hands me my change:
four copper coins. I leave.
We crumple back into the cage,
the hard wooden rafters pressing into
our chest. We wish we could
breathe properly again. We've tried
yoga, and meditation, and sitting
under a canopy of trees. We've tried
screaming, and therapy, and smoking out
the space between our lungs. Moved cities,
changed our name. We've tried it. Of course,
we've tried it. The hive still sings.
We turn our head sideways and catch
a glimpse of the nest. They're there:
buzzing mercilessly and gorging out
honeycombed holes in our flesh.
They slither and they swarm
and they're festering
in our scalp, feeding on our
withering husk of a body.
Our skeleton is dry and cracked now.
I itch all the time. Every minute
of every hour as it moves beneath my skin
There is a wasps nest in my attic.
It sings: the song is very loud and
very beautiful and I am so very afraid.