there's a butterfly
dying in my pocket
with torn wings and the
ache to fly
pressed close to my left chest
as if wanting to share a heartbeat
an old man saw me cradling
a fleeting life in my hand, he said
"It's dying."
"Why?," I asked
because a life this short shouldn't
have to end
"It's time," he walked past
and glass was growing in my throat
there was bile and words
wasn't this how we first met?
I cupped the butterfly in my hands
trying to save it, thinking of
honey water and second chances
a fantasy for a girl who wished for
better things
a life this short shouldn't have to end
but the butterfly is dying,
wings stopped fluttering
and tears were pouring
like rain
there is no second chances,
honey water is only selfishness
that we pretend was love
"would you rather have me cry in your arms or laugh with another?"
a life this short shouldn't have to end but
it does.
-nabs