The Wasps Nest.

She sways there.
200 feet above the ground
Dangling from a thread.

A seemingly sturdy thread
But a thread nontheless.
A breeze so gentle the water barely ripples.
She sways.

Her noose is budding, bright greens and pinks.
New life and energy all around her. The sky above is
blue and crisp. Not quite cold, but the warmth of the
Sun and its kindness hasn’t reached her yet.

Her skin is thick. Weathered and caked with all the dirt
and shame she’s ever seen in the world. Layers upon
endless layers, which as she collected them in the days
before felt light and manageable, now all at once feel
Heavy on her sturdy thread.
So she sways.

It is a rarity that men passing by would notice.
Every now and again, from the corner of their eye
When they pause to consider that the world exists
beyond their ego, they see her.
And pause.

God, she’s big.

Swollen with Energy and Dirt and Anger.
Does she buzz?
Is she filling with rage in this moment?
Or is she already full?
What if we blow our liquored breath to knock her down and
crack her open and see what she’s really made of, deep inside?

She sways.
Fully aware of the boulder beneath her.
It wasn’t on purpose that she grew and shaped herself
precariously above the boulder, but nonetheless
She is there And the Boulder is there and
Accident or not, they exist for each other.
Long for each other.

She sways.

The energy of the lifetimes before this one have collected
and inscribed themselves on her layers.
Folding around her, buzzing and burning her.
She accepts them - The visitors to her life that flit on
without a second thought of the dust they leave behind.
She envelopes herself in their memories and lessons.
It sways her.

She leafs through her pages, searching for an answer.
How long must she stay here? Welcoming anyone who
passes her door but really just wishing they’d leave
her alone. Is it supposed to feel like this?
Bursts of emotions so lively she could spin away and
light the world on fire. Followed by utter emptiness for
Days. Weeks. Lifetimes. She sways.

Her noose grows brittle, drying and cracking and
causing pause for those few that observe her.
She grips tightly to the bough, swearing the wind
won’t force her down. Her will and stubborness
clings to comfort, but only for a brief moment.
She sways.
This time by choice and it’s one big Push as she
reaches over to the limb beside her and gently
kisses its’ cheek. It’s time.

Spiraling to the ground, ready to shatter herself on
the unrequited love of her long awaited death.
She breathes.
For the first time ever, on the way down, she breathes.
Her pages go flying and her newest layers peel away
as she races towards the boulder.
They smile at each other, excited to finally meet.

Sounds echo and ripple all at once.
The birds are laughing. They know what is about
to happen. Her sturdy thread snaps. The bough has
cracked. The man spits out his coffee.
It’s happening.

She plunges on to the boulder and cracks open.
The sound of a million weighted book pages
fluttering in the wind. The buzz of a trillion
angry wasps who worshiped her, startled and
consumed with grief - seeking revenge.

Her corpse lay peacefully where she always meant to be.
And the life that lived inside her escapes to the vast
world around, filling it with the pain she so gracefully
protected them from.
She endured, never more than a sway to express her
discomfort.

And now here you go, Running into the woods
with coffee and piss soaked pants.
Screaming for your life as her swarm consumes you.
At least you can fall to the ground in agony
Knowing what she was really made of.
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