I’ve come down with a stomach bug.
Unfortunately, I need to postpone our meeting.
Thank you for your understanding.
On the couch, cowering,
the searing pain of shame
pierces my confidence clean through.
The cloud is back.
Every raindrop, a whisper:
You’ll never make it.
…not good enough…
…better off without you…
…just can’t get it together…
I’ll never make it.
Why does everything hurt?
How did I become the cloud?
It’s a bad morning.
I gather my weapons:
one numbs, another buries.
What I don’t squash, I silence.
I am a shovel, a shield, a stronghold;
an insentient cyborg; a stone.
Eventually, I look up.
Your enormous eyes, adoring portals,
beckon me to the fireplace.
I scoot up to your cozy throne.
You lift your long head toward mine;
snoot to snoot, you take me in.
With a thud and a sigh,
your silky skull meets my thigh.
My fingers find your cheek, a whisker.
Your ears, giant triangles, velvet.
Your long legs, capacious chest,
large enough for both of our hearts.
After a while, I rise.
It’s still a bad morning –
but softer.
HIVES 