There’s something romantic about bees.
Mostly how they sting.
How they pierce the skin with this tiny, venomous
Black needle and know as they fly away,
Their stinger ripping out of them,
That they will surely die.
They know that it’s their last resort,
They just don’t care.
To protect their hive,
These peasant bees would give their life.
And for a Queen who doesn’t care
To recognize their existence in the first.
There’s romance there.
One sided as it may be.
To die for someone who wouldn’t know the difference.
Now we’re not bees, and if we were
Just know that I would do the same