I’m not having a hard time
believing in something called
car crash messes
of butterfly wings
that have fallen from being
strung up amongst my ribs
and landed flat,
in my stomach.
I am not quite certain of what will bring them back to life.
I used to want to be called an author
but I am human origami
sitting in folded up masses of limbs
tucked behind places they should never be able to reach,
foot behind ear,
I still hear you every step of the way
it took me to admit that I had become a poet
in the face of disaster.
This is something make-up cannot cover.
Mask or disguise,
when I write to “lover”
know it is just hollow heartbeat
place holder soul
knight in shining armor
rusted on the road that led to Damascus,
I was blinded by the light that told me I
know longer needed to play damsel in distress.
So, without further ado,
I introduce my self-conscious,
uninhabited hatred of self
turned to romancer of my reflection,
I fall for its charms each time.
I am pretty in that I can see beauty
in other things.
Know that discord alone can
and that symphony is a
mix of instruments, played at different intervals,
but never messed UP
I cannot write love poems.
I write about palm kissers,
and shadow chasers,
start my stories with “Happily ever after”
because I am often left with
“ONCE upon a time…”
I searched too long for princes,
when I should have been climbing down my tower,
razor shredded tresses falling all around.
when you look at me,
when you take the crazy,
when you make me laugh for sweet seconds
that don’t feel like agony…
I want to.
the ones that stopped my car battery,
and I watch your eyes grow wide,
because in the cocoon of us,
butterflies are swarming.