The honeycomb is where I roll on the floor
with my friends in New Year’s Eve’s tears.
Glitter and laughter.
I cry out my laughter until my ribs ache and tighten and burst.
We drank too much grape soda tonight.
I feel like a blackberry,
and the fingers that I burst between
are fragments of seventeen.
The honeycomb is where my mother is yelling
at my brother to stop squawking from the basement,
and my sister is singing about dead puppies?
The honeycomb is morning light
on my stream of shower water,
where I stand and think about God,
and some guy I might like,
and how much I love mornings
when I can sip them slowly.
The honeycomb is taking pictures
with my best friends,
because today we’re all wearing flannels,
and we’re all having hair problems,
and our faces aren’t clear because we ate
too much junk food last night.
But we’re smiling,
because raw joy cannot be contained
in small sorrows such as bent
social perceptions and misconceptions of perfections.
What’s perfect is that we are alive,
and that we have places we can call home.
Places we can call the honeycomb.
Where we dream and thrive.
Our minds buzzing like the bees,
and “please?” isn’t a weak question,
but one we form out of wishing
well for others.
The honeycomb is a prayer.
A string of laughter.
Some tears too.
But mostly, it’s a crevice of light in my chest,
that doesn’t fade as everything else around me
turns to ash.
image curtesy of pinterest