Midnight City
It's like a honeybees buzzing around you, swarming, clustered. They press into you stinging and leaving the sticky golden substance on your cheeks as a memory. They make loud noises in your ears and fly into your eyes making them red and dripping blood. You're staggering, falling down, wings too small and body too heavy for you to be held up. You get up on your feet, knees trembling too fast and you close your eyes making circles in the damp earth. Rain is coming down on you and you look at your clothes as the little diamonds stick to them. The clouds are pressed close against each other probably highly uncomfortable as they hang over you. The world is a little more blurry than usual like how it is before you black out. But you don't faint; you spin again on top of the ashes of the bees. In the rain it feels better, the bees are scared of rain and don't prod at you spilling you over the ground. The world looks faded, black and white and grey like a hallucination taking place. You feel light as a feather, soft as your one year old cousin's baby skin, but too fragile to touch. After you're done spinning, you venture onto the sidewalk because people have told you the street is dangerous. Especially when it's raining and car tires are slippery and the windows are covered in the same little diamonds that are on your face making sure your brown hair sticks to your forehead like glue. You shudder as the thought of headlights coming at you too fast like flashlights in the dark. Everything's dejected, drippy, miserable, and freezing cold but you smile anyway as a single raindrop manages to find its little way onto your nose. You don't feel rundown or derelict but salubrious even though you could get pneumonia. You feel like you could take forty winks for a half a second but you see your favorite park in the distance.
Flowers are sprouted along the grass in bright colors and the swing set is wet. The outside of the slide is soaked also but you slide into it, curling into the middle. You want to ingest something, your stomach feels so empty but you curl in even more as your abdomen rumbles. You feel like you can endure this a little while longer, that you can tolerate it but the bees are back again pushing hard against your chest, trying to cut off your breath. The bees had real name called depression but you like to call them the bees because it makes you feel a little better. You feel the pressure on your chest get a little lighter as some water floods in from the top making the bees scared and some of them flutter away back to the hive waiting for the signal to come out again. You want to plead with them, make them see sense, that you're just an average girl and they are just average bees. But they don't listen and they never will. They have never listened. They are deaf to death. If you had a dime for every time the bees made you feel horrid and vomit able you would be a millionaire. But even with that money, you would still feel horrible. Numb and limp, you eventually fall asleep in the slide. You have never dreamt in the last months even closing your eyes for a second you see the nightmares flash like lightning against your eyelids. When you wake up from your nightmare it is merely 6 a.m. It isn't raining anymore and the bees hop around like anxious bunnies around your ankles. You slide out of the fire engine red contraption and stretch, yawning. You wring out your hair with cold fingertips, but it's too wet to dry. Shrugging, you walk into the woods for a stroll.