sting is like the truth of something you’d rather not know about. the comfortable floating that led you straight to the center of what you had been avoiding. it’s the hot breath on the back of your neck, oppressive and thick, sumptuous and vulgar.
sting is a the sharp crack of lemon on a parched tongue. folding gently between sugar and water, it’s needles of flavors, addictive, buoyant.
sting is the awful feeling of hypocrisy and doubt, bled through and out. left drying in heaps, on door steps i’ve crawled away from. unbecoming and fertilizing, the experience of growing through blood, sweat and tears. not always rejoicing.
sting is noises in the night felt in prickling hairs on the back of my neck, ending in “is it happening now?”, “if not now, then when?”
sting is surprised by biting, invisible threads of he said, she said, and i just heard from someone that…
sting is a choice flavor of faltering and ethereal, of heaven-sent and hell-bound, of being certain enough to doubt.