The imperfect, damaged bees fly with grace.
They fly among other insects,
never bothering,
keeping to themselves and their flowers.
Those warm, fluffy, brightly-colored flowers.
The bees find comfort in those delightful, magical, empowering flowers.
It encompases them, solving all of their troubles.
The bees feel complete.
Loneliness
Pain
Depression
Confusion
Anger
Anxiety
Those absolutely scrumptious flowers solved them all.
The bees are in blissful, unrelenting peace.

The people came and took the flowers.
What reasons did they give to the bees?
Flowers are dangerous.
Flowers will destroy you.
We must remove them to help the bees.
The bees will thank us later.
We’re doing a good thing here.
Did you hear me?
I’ve done a good, noble thing.
This is something to be proud of.

The bees are frightfully, horrendously alone.
The bees are in torturous, agonizing pain.
The bees are deeply, suicidally depressed.
The bees are hopelessly, hazardously confused.
The bees are dangerously, blindingly furious.
The bees are rushingly, stingingly anxious.
There are no more of those warm, fluffy, brightly-colored flowers left.
And there is nothing
the bees can do about it.
The people have only left one thing.
A single thing the bees can do.
Suffer.