Butterflies,
have knives,
and they’re,
cutting up,
my insides.
Just like,
the words,
stuck in,
my throat,
it’s just another,
line I’ve used,
before.
I never promised,
to be perfect,
but my pants,
are singed,
and my shoes,
filled,
to the,
brim.
It’s a bit,
unhinged,
like the corners,
of a page,
in your favorite book,
it’s not broken,
but it can’t,
be fixed.
It’s something,
cheap,
borrowed,
used,
and the wrong shade,
of blue.