**** butterflies in my stomach when i see you, i get the rush of wild mustangs trampling my body. the pounding hooves rattle my heart, and blurs of the meadow between heel and head hint at your blue-green eyes i so intently memorized. deafening neighs mask whispers in my head telling me to gaze a little longer. the force of their stampede whisks me off my feet just as your voice always does. but as the trailing horse disappears over the horizon, i'm left with the intoxicating feeling of your arms holding my broken pieces together.

I feel happier

Such a deceiving embrace, like pine trees with white pine blister rust. Disguised as love, only to find out it was lust. Be careful, my dear; butterflies can sometimes be wasps.

i've hated everybody
since polaroids of fake friends and birthdays
decorated the inside of my locker door
ever since i'd empty the medicine drawer
take too many pills, then take more
and be found on my bathroom floor
-
i've loved every person i've ever met
since my wide eyes eyed every girl as a king's bride
ever since my wide mind contemplated your  two iride sunshines
i'd gaze and stare into them until i went blind
and i could've looked into those eyes until the day i died, if i tried
you gave me bright butterflies, like a white river at sunrise
you were the rapid current, and i made sure to capsize

with wide, bright eyes
i'd go wonderblind, every time
obsessed with the gift of your iride skies
even when i cried, even when i tried my best not to lie
you opened your eyes, basking my skies with your iride sunshine
ever since polaroids of shy walks home
and safely locked medicine drawers
you always saved me
under the guise
of iride butterflies~

You shut your eyes and all the poets have gone mute;
Say moon-waltz. Say gun-stun
—and all the faithful says amen.

Yes, you’re the rogue wave in my belly.
The river, the hunger that drowns me whole.

How you keep my tongue sweet—I don’t know.
You’re the feeling after all the raindrops dropped.
The 39˚ fever, the Sunday morning songs
on the radio.

You’re the coldest pillow on my bed,
the warmest soup on the
drizzling November afternoon.

You’re the night sky lovers wish to keep,
the budding little violets on
the city sidewalks.

You’re all that butterflies, all my heart rumbles,
and all my prayers before bedtime.

There is a strange
Tingly sensation
In my stomach
When you are near
And when you speak to me
Or touch me
A sensation often described as butterflies
But they are not pure enough
To be butterflies
Because I know you don't feel them as I do
So they are moths
Moths
Because they are crowding your light
Moths in my stomach
Flying up
And up
And up
Through my windpipe
Choking me
And trying to reach you
And your blinding
Fluorescent light