Over the years, my stomach became
the grave of a thousand butterflies.
My ribcage filled with moths
craving the tiniest amount of light
they could possibly find in the dark.
So they are poking holes on my flesh
by feeding on my nerves, skin and veins.
And I let them do it.

Deep down I know they won’t stop
until I become one of them.
And deep down, I don’t mind.