I've been scared of wasps since I was a child. I carried a watermelon from my grandmother's garden, happy for the task and fresh fruit. A black wasp decided I'd slighted them and deserved to be stung.
No stinger was found in place of the welt, but I cried, and now I carry fear towards the bugs that sting.
Wasps make me duck and weave as if their eyes can't find me if I move quickly. At the same time, I hold my breath and hope it's not too quick.
A wasp can even be on a flower and I’ll shrink away. Knowing they can sting is enough for me to avoid them at all costs.
A poem based on a realization of how I view/respond to anger:
Anger is a wasp. I don't want it inside my house I'll hide and close doors, hoping it dies or finds a way out. If I swing back, it could sting me It's so small and I could win…but it could hurt. Anger is a wasp, loud in my ears. I shake my head and hope it doesn't follow me It leaves a tingling feeling that turns into an itch I don't want it near me. Anger is a wasp, and it makes me flinch. Its flight is unpredictable and we could collide. If we collide, it might not leave me be or it could tangle itself in my clothes or my hair. My ears will fill with its awful grumbles and protest, as if I wanted it to be there ensnared together. Anger is a wasp, and I fear the thought of a nest. Nests swell in multitudes and threaten to swarm at an odd glance or word out of turn. Nests need a steady hand and tools to be removed, and my hands tremble at the thought of reaching for it.