Wrong

Legs crossed, ears shut, and arms stiff. A song buzzing through my head, like bees that ought to be busy elsewhere. As I should be. Working on the comb, crafting wax, pleasing the queen. I'm not sure what my job should be. The beat pulsating through my foot, incessantly tapping. I need to do something. But I've done everything in time, on schedule, what is there? My shoulders are aching when there's not even anything on them. The season is heating up when it's supposed to be cooling down. People are becoming bitter, when they're supposed to be growing softer. Will everything always be so skewed here?