A poem

The way my skin feels at night. Waking up to buzzing. Finding moss in my hair. Losing track of steps. The inside of my boots are muddy, and the outside, and my elbows, and my knees. Running out of hot water. Running out of water. Finding bees in the walls. Inviting strangers in, speaking less, losing teeth. We dig deep under the house to find water, there is no water, we drink honey instead. Stomach aches. Loud laughter. Broken dishes. Something rotting in the basement, and all the bees, and we’re not scared of them anymore, they don’t sting us if we move in slow motion. Even our hair and fingernails grow in slow motion. We hold each other with too many arms. We don’t go in the basement anymore- the door stays shut, and we don’t talk about the smell. Flowers grow out of the floor boards. They are not weeds. They are not weeds, but we didn’t plant them. Books on tape. Long naps. Bad words. Cracked armor. I look out of compound eyes:
everything is in fragments.