The bee

A bee flew into my mouth the other day. Maybe my sweet talk drew him in.

I felt him tumbling over my tongue, searching for purchase on my palate. But I spit him out before he had the chance to stand or to sting. I couldn’t risk the prospect of adding any bite to my words…

But I wonder, if I’d held him there – could my tongue hold the balance of sweetness and sting? Could I tear someone to pieces, and in the next breath – make another someone grin?

He could leave his weapon for me; he’d gift it to my tongue. Then, the next time cruelty is said, my tongue would be armed with venom. Instead of shrinking in my mouth, like some scared, useless thing.

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