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In every crevice, rushing out like an ocean tide.
The angry specks won’t get off me.
They’re furious I’ve kept them banished for so long.
The anger…I know. It’s the only emotion I’ve registered at any depth for what feels like centuries. It coats everything. Taints my joy. My exhaustion. My love.
“Help…” I whisper. But I don’t know who I’m talking to.
A spark of unease cuts across my spine before a cold sweat breaks out on my brow. The clamminess doesn’t help free me from the grit. It clings more firmly as my mouth goes dry. As I begin to shake, and rock, and…fear. I’m…afraid?
I can’t remember that last time I felt afraid, but the pulse of fear makes my heart echo in my throat.
I’m alone in a sea of sand, and I am drowning, and I don’t know where Andromeda is, and I don’t know where Pollux is, and no one can hear me.
Sand begins to pour from my eyes as the emotions I gave up work through my chest and up my neck to strangle me. Before I know it, I am sobbing torrents of gold into my palms. Everything hurts. Every wasted moment. Every time I tried to show someone the castles I used to make, and they hit them like a wave on the beach. Every second my own parents told me it was time to put my buckets and shovels away.
And…
Grow up.
My flesh itches. And I understand. I understand all of this is not convenient. I understand it’s not mature enough for a lot of people. I get it. But it still hurts. It still hurts.
But of course it does.
Being wrong always will.
A buzzing breaks up the splintering sounds of my sobs. It fills my skull, demanding enough that I lift my face and look through my gold-lined lashes at…a bee.
He lands on the bridge of my nose before I can register what he’s doing here. His tiny forehead touches mine, and peace soaks into the cavern of my chest. The fear that was ripping me apart eases.
I’m…not alone anymore?
Have I always been so scared of being alone? I’m an introvert. I prefer my solitude…just like I prefer my security that the people around me won’t leave. It’s hard to find stability when people don’t like you.
I learned young that many people didn’t like me.
Who would?
Right now, sitting in the mess that is me, I don’t even know if I like myself.
Or maybe what I don’t like are the boxes. And the anger. The broken parts that wouldn’t be broken if I had been free to express all the shimmering, overwhelming, golden parts of me.
After all this time, the parts I hate most about myself are the ones that don’t belong.
In a way—I look down at the flecks coating my hands and arms—there’s beauty here if you just let it be.
The tiny buzzing starts again as the bee hovers in front of me once more. He does a circle, dancing. Bees communicate through dance, but I don’t know the language. Often, the dances are directions, though. “I can follow you,” I say, as though the bee might know my language. “Do you know how to get out of here?” Slowly, I drag myself upright and find my footing. “I was hoping a friend would come to help me, but he’s not here. I think I’m in Faerie. Do you think he’s not here because he’s finding me out there?”
The bee stops moving ahead to land on the tip of my nose.
I cross my eyes in an effort to look at him.
He seems imploring, somehow.
“Oh.” My eyes widen. “Oh.” I lift my hand, and he moves to my glittering palm. “Pollux? Is that you? Why do you look like this?”
He can’t answer me, because, well, he’s a bee. For some reason. But that doesn’t matter. The point is he’s here. He came.
