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 and
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 the other scurries off to do their own thing, 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 with yourself

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
nothing but your heart

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, regardless of another’s breath

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,
waking you up
to reality