A wasp can hide its colors but not its sting

Palermo, Sicily

And it stings.

To think I meant, nothing

To you.

Yes, I am leaving

But it seems you are leaving me, too.

I don’t know, a small part of me

Wanted you to

Come after me.

When we see each other, we act like we’re strangers

It’s your cue.

Like we are nothing.

That, (i was) nothing, to you.

And sometimes even I would doubt

Who we were when we were apart.

I guess we will continue on, more of the same.

How much this messed with my brain.

Everyone adores you

But I know the truth.

You always smile

When you sing

But, from where?

Is there something real about you?

Something other than, your sting?

Normally I would say goodbye in poems

But the only poems I have about you

Are like this, sad and confused.

When I go back

I listen to myself

And I knew, then

How this would work out.

But my heart wanted to believe

That the mask was the real you

Even, as I was bleeding

From your piercing, sting