“And to his surprise, there were butterflies coming out of his mouth.”

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Quite literally, nothing is literal. Everything is a grain of salt in itself, and therefore no matter what we do or say or read or hear or exist, we all die of sodium poisoning. Is that a possible thing to do? Can we live, breathe, exist even if we ourselves are but a single grain of salt to be taken with other infinite grains of salt? Can a grain of salt itself die in general, let alone die of sodium poisoning?

Ah, sand, then? No, that can’t be any better. What about sugar? Absolutely not. What is everything, then, if not a grain of salt to be taken with another grain of salt, and another, and another?

An extended metaphor, maybe. How many grains of salt does it even take to create an extended metaphor, though? How does one measure such a strange volume? Would the measurements even be cubic? Volume? Area? What does an extended metaphor look like? A paragraph, I suppose, so that would be area. But how big would this paragraph be? Average? How big is the average paragraph, and how would anyone ever count the endless amount of paragraphs being written everywhere and everywhen? Further research is required.

I find myself wishing much more than I ever have, or ever should, that there existed any kind of salt-to-paragraphs conversion chart.

Your mouth is full of endless butterflies
Your lungs are full of roses
Your eyes hide the city of Atlantis in their depths
Your hair is loosely woven silk
Your skin is unblemished porcelain

Or so I thought

Your mouth spews hornets, wasps, and bees
You cough up thorns and brambles
Your pupils are slits, irises bleeding red
Your hair is rope, tangled into nooses
Your broken porcelain cuts open my chest

You were so beautiful
You were so kind
Your whispers were magical chants into my ears
But then you tried to **** me with your words

your lips are a magnificent instrument
beautiful symphonies escape them
i'm in the front row,
lovingly observing your one woman orchestra
staring into your eyes.

i wish i had the ability to hear

I unravel in your arms,
no more than a tattered baby blanket
in your eyes.