Altruism is often anglicized,
prophesied, to be proof of someone's halo.
To put someone else's needs before yourself,
must be proof of someone's moral health.
And yet, there is an altruistic soul who slaves for days
only for the sake of praise,
an angel who dabbles in the sin of pride.
"I saved you," they say,
"I am but a true altruist."
They smile with a devilish grin, for then they are
better than human.
Honey bees nip at my knees,
which causes me to freeze.
Oh, why me?
You could have chosen anyone, little bee.
It’s dark, where I am. Not cold, for cold gives you solace. Not hot, as in a hammer striking molten iron to make a sword. Not warm, pointlessly and deliberately harsh and itchy.
"Who are you?" It cooed.
Its eyes behind my back
spoke to the intent of its curiosity,
something brushed against my hand
in a low yet dangerous level of ferocity.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
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