You are the butterfly
that softly whooshes
between my ribcage
and that flutters
around my heart
aiding in its job
of moving the carcass
that is my body.

Even if you oddly
revert your
metamorphosis
and stay still
next to me
and rest in a cocoon
allowing silence
to rule for a day or two
perhaps
I've hurt you
and that's your way
to regenerate
from my unintentional
hurt.

As I lay in bed
I do the same
I go back
to my own cocoon
I shelter myself
out of site
but I'm no
butterfly.

I scroll down
on poetry websites
such as All/Hello poetry
and I read the poems
on both of them
and they're all the same
either with too much
imagery and metaphor
they remind me of that saying
less is more.
Then there's the ones
who rhyme and they sound
like children's books
they don't understand
how writing
a good rhyming poem
is harder than
committing ******
and getting away with it.
That's why I avoid them at all costs.
And finally,
there's the fictional poems
often tied to contests
and they're often either
nursery rhyme poems
or drift store Picasso imitations.
I don't get it.
Why don't people just talk
about their day and how
folding the laundry
or scrubbing the toilet
somehow gave them an epiphany
that made them write a poem
about their most recent ****** encounter
with their wife that was way better
than their previous one?
If they would apply this philosophy
into their poems
then I wouldn't be stuck
reading about
the sick, the dying, and the dead.

"you know
with a smile like yours
you could knock
ANYONE
off their feet..."

"oh really?
remind me of that
the next time
I'm in a bar fight."

I got a knock
at the door
at 3 am.
I open it
there he is.

"let me in
there's pigs
outside"

I let him in
and take a good look.
He usually
isn't like this:
like he owes
a debt to the world
and the earth
came to collect
her cash with Interest.

"What did you do?"
"I was smoking ***
and the cops ran after me."
"Do you think I'm stupid?"
"what do you mean?"
"Dude, you smell
like gun powder."

He knew I knew
We waited 2 hours.
The cops were gone.
"Here have this ski-mask."
"Thanks."

He has a kid
and wife now
not everyone's
that lucky
to live that long.
good for you
old sport.

My father has a temper
one day he gave me—
a old school beating.

He stripped me down
to my boxers
hit me with a belt
until it broke.

then he switched
to a wooden spoon
he said —
"take your hands out of the way
or I'll break your fingers".
So, I did.

Then, he hit me with his hands
until he couldn't no more,
he stopped.

afterwards he went
towards the kitchen
I heard him pant
tired from beating a 15 year old
tirelessly.

He filled up a glass of water
drank it. And came back.
he finished what he started
and punched me twice in the face
like a man holding a grudge.

All of this because
I was skipping school.

But, I can't say he is a bad man.
He is the same man who taught me
everything I know
who cared for me and raised me
the same man —
who for years I barely saw
because he worked abroad in Spain
or he had two jobs
and worked 16 hours or more.

I was bruised red
all over that day
I hid under the covers
of my bed.

My mother got home
asked what happened
and only then I cried
I had so much pain
I couldn't move.

the blue bedroom walls
now, turned white
from shock.

only the straw chandelier
made sense
the light coming out of it
made a pattern
tiny shadow squares
a cell.

The next day I wore
a sleeveless shirt to school
it was dark blue
to show off the dark purple bruises
dark wide circle and rectangles
from the belt and the spoon
I matched the outfit.

and to show
how I was strong
how I was still standing.

What do they call those shirts
wife beaters?
Ironic.

Anyway,
My father later
when I was older
said he cried more than me
that day in his car

Somehow—
I doubt it.