Saturday, September 13, 2014


I used to write in blood
But I’m reformed now
And resort only to ripping out my soul
When sending you a letter
Not pricking the vein
Beside the heart
Writing out my words

Words, a vine,
Climbing the concrete
The leaves and fruit
Pale in wine and
Stuffed with rice and lamb
Always a bitter taste
That ends in being full

The butterfly flew
In my bedroom window ajar
On the third floor
Fluttered to the bed post
And whispered that the change
Is better than anything
A caterpillar can believe

I used to flicker in blood
Dance to the music
And then curl back up
In a deep depression
Only eating
Only living
When pushed by others

Words are ashes
On the kitchen table
Like incense
After the burn
Pale in wine
And stuffed
With pain and hunger

The butterfly
Landed on my nose
I jumped
She said
You’re more timid
Than you let others

Inside the birth
Of the butterfly
The breathing
Of the flame
I stir in the ashes
I choke on air

And learn to flicker

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