Honeycomb.

I am crushed,

like how he

tries to knock down the hornet's nest
every summer on our back porch,
violence raging in his veins,
refusing to listen as we tell him that this

isn't the right way to do it.

The honey has left my tongue,
no more sweetness to indulge in.

I don't have the energy to summon
the substance of words.

I am dried up -
a shriveled passion fruit that never
knew passion for long anyway.

He walked away before I could explain

why it matters

why I matter

and now, I'm a predictable pattern
of shadows,

hiding from the world yet again.