I can taste the licks of flame in my mind,
Just barely; I cry. The sour flavour corrodes
My tongue, telling me I can't continue
To suffer the wrath. The scent kills me,
And I continue to defy what is constantly
Whispered in my fragile ears.
The sound of the bitter cackling of demons
Burns the wings of butterflies that inhabited
My entire body. The smoke from the charred,
Powder-white wings of moths,
Parasites, kiss the scares and open them again.
The desire to feel the pain consumes the spindly legs
Of butterflies trying to escape, nearly dead
By fire caused by my own hands.
My fingers shake, I am cold.
But my messages are not clear anymore.
I am no butterfly on fire.
They are all dead.