People tell me I’ve changed, that they can see it in my face. My skin looks sallow in the sunlight.

I used to be the type of person who read poetry before breakfast and decorated herself with flowers. I’d wake on the cusp of daybreak with an aura tinged all the shades of a daisy field. I was warm, once.

Nobody knows what happened.

Two months is a long time to be numb, isn’t it? And now I find myself with no memory of how to emit light, to create patterns with my voice, to unfurl. This hive of a heart has stopped humming and I’m unsure of how to recall the bees.