This Poem isn’t about bees - It’s about the systems that expect sameness - ND, Dystopia, and the Horror of Sameness

This poem isn’t about bees at all. It’s about the systems that expect sameness — the hive‑logic of schools, workplaces, families, society — and how ND wiring refuses to shrink into one assigned role. ND people aren’t built for silent obedience, for repetition without meaning, for being reduced to function. The hive is the dystopia. The Handmaid echo is deliberate: women reduced to usefulness, ND people labelled “difficult,” everyone expected to serve the system. I’m not writing about bees. I’m writing about what happens when a world built on uniformity meets a mind built for difference.

HIVE LOGIC

(ND, Dystopia, and the Horror of Sameness)

Poem

Hive

A hive. Living in a hive.

One role. Accepting. Accepted. Accountable.

One role.

It’s so dystopian.

ND could never. Be the same. Do the same. Be trusted with the role.

How could anything be created, accepted — or could it?

Watch. See. Do.

One task. Busy bee.

Wave. Feeling. Shared hormones. Pheromones. Vibrations. Hum. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

Foragers. Unity. Be good. Do good. Task. Purpose. Hive.

Handmaiden.

Comments

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter.

Dear Molly, my strong, funny, tenacious, independent, courageous daughter. So if I got paid for every time someone told me my daughter looks fabulous, I’d be a millionaire. A millionaire for every doctor who ignored you, for every professional who let you slip through the cracks, for every moment when the full information, the full picture, the full respect wasn’t given. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Today is for you, Molly. And for the future generations of our family — because this is genetic, because this is inherited, because someone needs to notice and someone needs to ask the right questions. I have become, by necessity, a hormonal expert. A mother who had to learn what the system refused to teach. And through it all, your husband — your rock — has moved mountains beside you, carrying what others refused to see, loving you through every unseen storm. I wish PMDD looked like your arm falling off. Because if people could see it, they’d care. Docto...

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way

Going Shopping in the Menopausal Way A menopausal purchase is planetary. The sun must shine. The temperature must be just right. You must be neither dipping nor surging — just perfectly balanced in the hormonal moment. Because unless you buy exactly when the stars align, it will get returned. You’ll love it on the day. But if the scales tip even slightly — by the next morning, it’s on the fence. If you’re lucky, you’ll return it. If not, it’ll sit in your wardrobe for 28 days until the return window closes. Then it’s either sold on Vinted for a quarter of the price or left to haunt you. There’s a lot resting on a menopausal buy. It’s not just a purchase — it’s a mood, a moment, a miracle. I never realised this until I saw how small my wardrobe was. Not because the shops weren’t there — but because I wasn’t there when I got there. You leave the house feeling great. You arrive at the shops and suddenly… not so great. So the purchase is less than mediocre. ...

An electric toothbrush - love and hate. A poem about a mundane daily action

An electric toothbrush— love and hate. 27TH NOVEMBER I love my toothbrush, the circular motion, up and down, round and round. Is it because I’m left-handed, or right-handed? I put it to the left, look in the mirror, rub my gum more than my tooth. One side sore, one side unclean. I loathe toothpaste. I hate it. I hate this smile. I hate the taste. But I love clean teeth— the touch of the tongue across the front, smooth, shining. Every three weeks, my sore gum returns. I forget what I’m doing, leave it whirling, mindless chore. I love my toothbrush. I love clean teeth. I loathe my sore gum. It’s a pattern I repeat, monthly, weekly, over-brushed, sore gum. When I’m old, really old, I won’t brush my teeth. Fifty years, twice a day, since I was nine or ten. Don’t get me started on toothpicks, tape, wax, gaps. But when I’m seventy-five— no more. I’ll rub the t...

Hello Wall - Hormonal Heart Poetry

Search This Blog