i staple a fresh butterfly
to my chest
to feel the fluttering wings
as nervous pattering
overlaying the dessication
in simple sublimation
while the world evaporates
in unhinged chaos

deep down i know
that if i ever let myself
freely express the fullness of me
that is magma in my chest
i would lose whatever
small part of you i hold
instead my chest is a raw field
covered with dying butterflies

so if you see a flash of color
over a field of wildflowers
that’s just me
telling you that i love you
in the only way i can figure
that will not destroy
the both of us with the deep
soultaint of my battered heart

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