can’t make honey out of anything
I just want to express my hatred of pollen. I feel like my eyes have been poked with many very tiny golden needles, and I can’t breathe. Every day I wake up, and for a second I think oh my god, something tragic is going on or has gone on, because I feel like I was up weeping all night. I walk into the new sunlight with ponds in my eyes. People look at me in reverence, because grief is that way. They think it is mine.
Image by `larafairie