The Bee, The Bicycle, and The Tide

May
For years it was just a reflection in my eyes
Of the dancing constellations in the skies
At backyard bonfires...
My clothes soaked with the dense, naive smoke of summer.

May—
When I thought I was free,
But in May, I was the tulip and you were the bee.
You landed on my leaves like the sun and gave me the strength to grow into something beautiful...
But I never got a chance
Just like the bees, it wasn't long until you had to fly to the next flower in the garden.
Just like the bees, you took something away from me.
As you left, you gave that all away—
To the daisies, the roses, the lilies—
Scattering my love for miles in the heat of the sun that wasn't so comforting anymore.

May—
When I realized that freedom wouldn't be the same anymore and that the sun left damage that no rainstorm of tears could heal.
The heat withered away my pedals and shrunk my confidence down until this tulip...wasn't so beautiful anymore...
Until the other bees could no longer see the vibrant shades of happiness beneath the damaging drought of heartbreak.

May used to be the blues, pinks, and yellows of sidewalk chalk clinging to my bare knees.
It was a care free skip across the pavement, maybe a laugh, maybe shouts of joy.
Now may has replaced hopscotch with the image of learning how to ride my big kid bike for the first time.
May has replaced my rainbow colored knees with only the blacks and blues of bruises,
The never-quite-healing scabs of a hard fall that grandmas kisses and dandelion wishes won't fix.
The one time I forgot to wear my helmet, the one time I let my guard down,
May came like a pebble on the driveway, sticking into the treads of my bicycle tires,
Sending me skidding across the cement.
God only knows how one pebble could have left so many scars.

In may, we took trips to the shore, where earth falls off into the ocean.
You were the tide leaning in to touch the beach.
You were the sun, kissing every part of me that your lips could reach.
But the tide always leaves and the night always replaces the light in the sky.
I could have cried an eighth sea with all the salty tears in my eyes.
If I was a shell, pushed onto land by your oceanic hands,
May would reveal millions of pieces of me mixed into the sand.
Because the fickle tide rocked me from earth to sea, till there was little more than dust left of little seashell me.