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The Honeycomb & The Feast

My blood is a beehive
Waiting to be smoked out
So that my hard work and honeycomb
Can be yanked from their nestled chamber

My blood half running through his body as well
may also be a beehive
Yet I think at this age,
his anger pools deeper than a honeycomb does

We were both stranded
We were both startled

Neatly, I stack my sacrifices in wooden drawers
in a hand me down dresser
in a quaint tiny room.

I cannot always be the victor
You cannot always be the enemy

Soon enough the tables will turn,
like a lazy Susan on a Thanksgiving table

Cluttered and messy
Loud and loved
Full and sick

As you reach for the honey,
my blood begins to curdle
and it is then
that a stalemate is formed

Your pawn, no Queen
My Queen, lost

The honey, devoured.

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