She’s sitting on the porch with a yellowjacket attached to her head. Not attached, per se, when it’s walking around with an occasional flutter of its wings and lifting its legs away from strands of hair. She can see this in the window’s reflection, see the sting at the end of its stripe-serrated belly as it bobs in time with movement. She reflects back at the reflection
this is my life, wouldn’t you know it. a teeth-grit decision, living with this or doing the running and screaming bit in hopes that the bad thing won’t happen, that it will just go away. or sitting here for half an hour and hoping that it will just go away. but it doesn’t, does it?
And it’s not that difficult, in the end, having someone knock it off with the broom before her panicked dash for the hermetic and conditioned box behind the glass sans nature and all its stinging wonders. Only there’s the next day, and the next
risking life. that’s what we do. knowing there’s the one moment in a million where it’s going to cut my heart out and watch me eat it, watch this bloody and still-beating thing settle into some new and mangled configuration behind my ribs. it’s what we do every time we step outside, right? so why do we open the door into the big, wide world? why do we even bother? is it the monkey curiosity that seems like one more piece of junk dna when we step into the cave and come out with a hemorrhagic virus? is it the limbic urge of fucking and eating and all around sensory indulgence? is it
She wonders and wonders and wonders behind closed doors and sealed windows hoping that she’ll figure it out by the time the warm weather comes, before the first spring rain because she can’t help but recall the feel of light against her skin and her skin becoming gold.