I'm pulling out my parachute
In a last attempt to survive your butterfly kisses
From my stomach to my chest.
These butterflies seem to stab,
And fold their steel wings against my skin.
So I might try to fly away
In my broken parachute
Red as the blood we spilt.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 1:37 PM UTC
I'm pulling out my parachute
In a last attempt to survive your butterfly kisses
From my stomach to my chest.
These butterflies seem to stab,
And fold their steel wings against my skin.
So I might try to fly away
In my broken parachute
Red as the blood we spilt.