when the bottle turns

When I was a young girl I prayed to a glass bottle on the stained carpet in my closet and I begged
the Lord to make me straight. I asked for a sign, I bargained with the man, I said, “if I come back
to the bottle turned either direction as proof I’m not gay, I’ll never do another bad thing in my
life.” And then I left. Can I tell you a story about bumblebees? Bumblebees are the kindest
version of bees amongst the clan. This may be obvious when comparing them to hornets or
wasps, but when they stand—I’m sorry, fly—alone, they send humans of all ages running and
screaming. When they’re not alone, the reactions are even worse. Fly swatters, fists, towels,
bricks, anything to keep their stinger out of our skin. I don’t blame humans, it’s natural to run
from potential pain—it’s brave to fight back. I blame bumblebees, I blame them for not being
stronger; for dying after their first and only attack. I wish they could be brave or smart or
harmless, but being all three at once is impossible and bumblebees don’t even have brains,
according to the factbook I keep on a shelf safe in my imagination, so I don’t know what I
expected when I left my window open and my closet door cracked, I don’t know what I expected
when I came back hours later with a buzzing heart and stripes down my face and when I saw the
bottle still exactly in place, I picked it up and turned it myself, praying to God that he didn’t see.