Stung

You have stung me,
left your barb in
my thinner flesh
and flown away. What
have I left, without you,
but a violet boil
from which I must suck
your sweetest poison
and nurse my shredded
heart to health
in your wake.

I am not prepared
to bid you, black and yellow
bumblebee, goodbye
and watch you slide
out of my line of
vision, leaving naught but
your buzz in my ear, and
a memory of
your winged flutter
on my cheek.

So I will not
let you float away
so easily.
I will pluck your stinger
from my skin
and sew it back into
your body. I carry your venom
inside me, but I will let
you keep what is yours.

For bees, as they sting,
must die.
But I refuse
to be the death
of you.