The butterflies inside of me have something to say,
        But I can’t let them speak.

They’re strung up in
        Some tangled mess of mesh
And mutter muted melodies
        From behind some scratching,
               Screaming screen
        Knitted from my fibers of fear,
               Or maybe manifested void of muse
                       And licked with the salt of uncertainty.

The butterflies inside of me have something to say,
          But I cut off their wings.

They sputter and swirl and sweep up
         Dusty remnants of chipped paint
                Inside my chest,
         But because I’m empty,
                Barren and dull,
                Cloudy and cold
        And cracked and crazy,
        Their tiny shrillness
        Of struggling wings
                And straining strings
                        Of voice tainted with winter
                Hits me without impact,
                        No pressure in their phrase,
                        No sincerity in their praise,

The butterflies inside of me have something to say
        But their colors aren’t bright enough to read.