I lost a day while I traced butterfly wings with broken limb branches.
Trying to dissect the veins that caused flight.
Knowing that the chalk designed bedpan in the sidewalk.
Would only be the very place to pull my own self-apart.




I manage to find myself shrunk into a canvas.
Always trying to create something, just so I can cascade destruction upon it.
Like dynamite to a heart that’s already been exploded.
I’ll light the fuse anyway, just to make sure I can’t possibly hurt again.





& I told her wings that…






It was summer yesterday, and I remember it quite clearly.
Planting tiny flowers in the mud with my bare hands.
I forgot what it was like to feel every piece of dirt streaming through the surfaces.
But yet I was too busy planting, just so I could hear the stripped roots pulled tomorrow.





But as I sit thinking, with my hands still bundled in dirt…
There was a time, where I didn’t feel so complex.
Where leaves could wave just because they wanted to.
And I didn’t have to commit butterfly homicides just so I could see what veins made them fly.






It’s hard some days.
Being content with stepped on chalk outlines and broken branches.
Trying not to think of what made two simple things so unimportant.
What made it so easy for people to step over them like they were nothing?






And maybe I’m nothing.







Maybe the joy of looking at the salt in the ocean and missing the waves
Was just some kind of picture flaw I never could grasp.
Because the details we’re always so much more beautiful.
Like ripping out the veins of a flower, rather than watching a bloom.








Like tearing her wings, much like a soul.
Just because I didn’t know how to fix my own.






&. I told her wings that…











Tomorrow is winter.

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