Tongue-tied butterflies, the tickling flutter inside -
but it’s not the good kind,
it’s the sucker-punch kind
that makes you nauseous and want to stay in bed all day
looking out your window
until your heavy hulk eyelids snap shut
and you dream of the fantasy where you are not this
wretched, evil or confused.
Everything makes sense there.
All you do is dance with one person
underneath the leaf-canopy of a sycamore tree.
You kiss and your bellies rumble with laughter,
for each other, with each other.
And when they scurry off, you are alone,
but you’re alright because you’ve seen what you look like in the mirror,
and you’ve never been so pleased.
The meaning of love in this faerie land forest is to simply, be, as you are
with nothing but yourself.
Nothing but your hands,
nothing but your eyes.
It’s the sparking connection,
touching someone else,
and seeing their lips curl into the most vivacious grin.
It makes love special but it doesn’t make love, for you already are such.
I awaken at the sound of chirping birds,
my window still glowing of shady sunlight.
Tongue-tied butterflies, the tickling flutter inside -
but it’s not the good kind,
it’s the sucker-punch kind
that makes you sick,
you see how sick you are,
you are sick of who you are.