Sickman

I’m sick with some damn thing. It’s not so bad  I’m just a little dramatic about illness. In this case, that means I drink a lot of tea, eat some ice-cream, wrap up in a blanket, and quietly hum the secret songs of the true insect ancestors. (A song I learned from a sailor and infirmary tourist in 2006.) This song summons the shells of the bone bees from their rotted hives. They’ll knit me back together with their stingers and patch whatever they can’t knit with honey. It’s why I’m so sweet, you see. But it does ache.

And I must learn to avoid the long proboscis of mosquitoes in the pay of international honey merchants. Those merchants are –outside of respectable society– one of the most violent confederation of raw psychopaths on this planet. Those fuckers will bleed you dry for half-heard rumor of single tear drop of honey. Can’t really blame them tho. Many of them grew up in terrible circumstances and that bee-made blood honey is more expensive than ambergris. Needs must, as they say. Needs must

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