Let me come in, let me come in. I am a bee living a bee’s life, buzzing against the windowpane, beeing in a loud sonorous boring drone. I have dived deep into the sticky sweet heart of the petunia, banded pink tapering into a pool of nectar. I sucked in petunia syrup and bloated with petunia gas. Nectar coats my inside and my outside, sticking to my heart and my wings. I am honey in the making; let me come in.

No one wants me to come in, because people are afraid of me. How silly. People are huge and lumpy and can squash me with a folded newspaper with no mercy for my  bee heart and bee brain buzzing together in rhythm. People are bee deaf. I have a little stinger, some protection ha ha. It’s not much use against a folded newspaper. All the advantages are on their side, and yet they see me on their windowsill and scream “a bee a bee!” They send me to premature and violent death just because my beeness offends them.

Let me come in, let me come in. I am a bee who wishes to come in and rest in the warm kitchen, panting my wings. I want to bee into the kitchen and eat the sweet rotting fruit left on the counter. I want to bee into the heart of the dying flowers vased on the table. I want to bee against the windowpane, and die peacefully against the glass. Let me come in and bee with you.

Let me come in. I am just a poor bee with a pretty begging song.