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Jan 2013
So many butterflies;
on my arms, my thighs,
my hips.
I want to let them
free, let them fade from
each layer of skin,
but the razor wants them
dead.
It wants to nip off their
wings like little pieces of
construction paper,
slice off their antennaes,
rip open their
abdomens.
Blood is what it
lusts for,
its trophy, its
pride.
It is no longer a
tool, but a
self-destructive weapon.
It kills the living and
the hope,
takes away every
color from their
wings until there's
only red.
Dani Huffman
Written by
Dani Huffman
489
   Md HUDA
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