Eric Bischoff
Sour Honey now. the death of the bee and the souring of honey begins slow, subtle. as a father tiptoeing up to his bed. as a dead anger in his face’s flushed red. i was 13. the bee did not turn over on its back and feel the weight of love sink the soul. it did not cry out to the heavens, or raise a triumphant wing. it stopped in its tracks for a very long time, and never continued. the bee had flown from its hive, looking for nectar to make honey. the bee was too late. and gone for too long.
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