The last time I saw you, I was the splitting image of the Butterfly Project.
I thought pen could save me.
In middle school, they impress upon you so much about ink poisoning,
But not enough about what to use besides ink.
I need the butterflies on my wrist, I say.
I’ve been doing some research, and I found that
Butterflies can see the color red.

I tell you they tumbled down my arms.
The butterflies, they somersault
Over red crevices in my wrist and palm;  
Bat their wings like eyelashes holding back tears;
Rush air over wounds with their wings
Because oxygen heals.

I never said I didn’t like the taste of oxygen.
It just wasn’t my flavor yet.

Maybe the reason I like film photography so much
Is because an author named Janet Fitch once said she felt like
An underdeveloped photograph,
Her image rising to the surface.
Maybe my photograph is overexposed.
My photograph is of the whiteness in my mind when I hurt myself,
And I need chemicals like fixer
To bring an image to the front and center.
The rule of thirds divided me into two parts self-hatred
And one part hatred for hating myself:
Perhaps there’s one chemical I need to soak my brain in;
Perhaps I missed the perma-wash step
And I didn’t fully rinse away the negative solution on my film.

And if I am to talk about steps,
Then I am a spiral staircase that hasn’t had the steps built in yet
Because I don’t understand how to attach them.
I’ve forgotten how to hold onto railings.
My palms are splintered because I land on them when I fall.

Now I never said I wasn’t worth recovery.
I just couldn’t say that I was.

I am the embodiment of not wanting to get on the roller coaster because I’m scared,
but also being the roller coaster myself.
I just don’t know how to stop.