Angry Wasps

Honey-barren sprites-
they might zap and zing.
The lap-wing lull and buzz
fills my stomach to the brim.

I have been realized.
With one sailing swish,
the warm beastie sword
pushes into my skin.

Red plush puffs out.
I cannot move.
My widdiful existence pulls
me closer to the sting.

Through this aperture I begin
to feel my humanity.
This is sickly indelible
when one wishes to be the wasp.

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