Not bees

On these days of broken weather,

I know better than to crave

the sweet shards of poison you


would leave behind—shattered candy

sticking in my hair. You did not care

for tending

to your mess after upending

our bowl of pink carnations.

Sugary stamens cling to me,

but they bring not bees—


only wasps.


It is better to stop losing

and to admit that I have lost.

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