The Beekeeper

by S.M. Shade

Getting railed on a freshly filled grave in the dead of night is just a bonus.

This is what’s fundamentally wrong with me as a person. I’m a ball of anxiety at a crowded restaurant or when the self-checkout yells at me about unexpected items, or for no reason whatsoever like today, but following a mysterious guy into a graveyard at dusk? Perfectly fine.

It sucks to need such reassurance but it’s a part of anxiety that never seems to give me a break. The conclusion I usually jump to is that I’m annoying people or pestering them.

What do you say when the sweetest, most peaceful, kindhearted man in the world kills for you?

“Kids don’t care who buys their food or pays the electric bill. They care about who is kind to them.”

Watching the smoke swirl into the air, I think about how we’re all fucked up. Just damaged people interacting. How we bounce off each other, our insecurities grating together, our bruises not quite matching. How we hurt each other. How we heal each other.

Love exposes us. Like a swelling sun, it illuminates us from the inside out, its light revealing every intimate corner and vulnerability to each other. We shine with it. Nothing remains hidden.