For a moment I thought
it was a butterfly,
the yellow and orange leaf
that took flight from the swishing poplar tree
across my balcony.

It swayed and fluttered in excitement –
here and there, up and down,
undecided if right or left,
to the ground or up to the sky –
Should I stay or should I go?

What to make of perceived options
when you lose your wings to know
that gravity always wins?
And ultimately to the ground
with or without wings.

How can I have loans to pay,
when i can't even find a way,
to keep my guts from spilling out?

How can I save each bug,
So many small holes dug,
Where do I get little gravestones?

What is this feeling in my stomach?
The butterflies flutter nonstop—I can hear their wings beating beneath my skin.
I feel them shift from side to side,
Claiming what little remains of me.

What is it?
What is this bitter taste rising through my throat, resting on my tongue?
Why can’t I hear the butterflies anymore?
Why do I still feel this?

My mouth opens, and all I spit is blood and glass.
The sour bile of what the butterflies once were grows thick—and I can do nothing.
“Spit them out, regurgitate them, let them go!”
I can’t.

I press my chest, and slowly my arms bind themselves around my belly,
Cradle of cutting kisses—kisses that now hurt,
And no longer heal the way they used to.

I rise from mourning, only to fall again, and the butterflies begin to flutter once more,
But they no longer beat like drums or echo like thunder.
They don’t crash against my walls or hide in my corners…
They are there, but not alive.

They try to climb.
I feel them fighting each other, pushing for space up my esophagus—
Once a path for all things good,
Now a tunnel for all things painful.
I hear them scream; their tiny voices pierce my eardrums and shake my bones.

They want out.

And I understand them well:
What good is a body that dances among broken hearts?
What use are shards beneath my feet,
Reminding me how little I’ve felt?
What comfort is the weeping of a soul grown weary?
What joy lies in the bottomless hollow of a body fed by illusions?
They were made for the sun—for joy, for love—
And all I can offer is an umbrella
For the relentless rain storming inside me.
Cold, decaying rain that stains the walls and soils my shoes, instead of washing them clean.

They’re almost free—
About to escape.
But I swallow them down once more,
Just as I’ve swallowed the bile of melancholy,
Just as I’ve swallowed the tears that swore, they would soften the blades of my sharp-edged heart.

I feel them sink slowly,
Their wings now still—they’ve accepted their fate.
I don’t want to let them go,
Because they’re all I have left.
They’re all I have of what once was pain.
They’re all I have of what once was passion…

They’re all I have of what once was love.

Though the world feels too small
but my wings still can't fathom all
The northern air sways right
but my body refuses
to lift my soul.
Shall I leave my fate
to the wind beneath
or take the plunge
in the ocean's fall.

One day, i am going to grow wings,
And leave this place behind and never look back.
One day, i am going to grow wings,
And live as myself forever.
One day, I am going to grow wings,
And be the person I needed then.
One day, I am going to grow wings,
And not be scared of the height.
One day, i am going to grow wings,
And be free.

My wings will be big,
To support the weight of my grief.
My wings will be large,
To have the stability i never had.
My wings will be clean,
To remind me of the dirt in my soul.
My wings will be strong,
To fly high and fast from the depths of myself.
My wings will be light,
To make me feel like i never even had them in the first place.

In a fantasy world,
My soul is pure.
In a fantasy world,
My heart isn't hurting when left alone.
In a fantasy world,
My mind isn't my enemy.
In a fantasy world,
My existence isn't something to fight for.
In a fantasy world,
I will grow wings.

One week since you've gone
Day by day I yearn
I wait for your return
Am and night, I sit silently
Gonna be there a bit longer
Grow as a person eventually, but
Wings take time to create

I wish you could see me
More than my gaze,
More than my smile
I wish you could hear more than these words
That I’m speaking out loud

Your eyes wander up and down slowly against my silhouette
Yearning my embrace, craving my warmth
Just to fill your thirst with your empty glass
Eyes that lust - dress me up in lies.
Gouge them out and throw them away, please - If you can not, meet me in purity

Haunted by tomorrow’s hopes,
I wish you could see me.
Not just idolize or fantasize
I am not your projection
I am not your sacred prize
I wish - you could see me.

Immaturity loves Shiny objects,
Because that’s what beings are to IT - objects, right?

IT caught a Butterfly and caged her in,
Just to boast: “I touched her Wing.”
But never asked how Light is fed,
Or why the Stars sleep in her head

IT wants to say IT once touched Divinity,
But not honor it, nor grow with it

In seeking to cage the Butterfly,
You lost the chance to learn
how to tend your own Light
in the presence of one
Who carried Sun in her wings

I can never be enough,
Or fully myself.
You want me to limit my presence for your liking,
Need to be careful not to shine too bright, Otherwise you’ll go running to the shadows. There’s the comfort zone..
Did I scare you?

“Too much” - what does that even mean?

Perhaps it’s just the trembling scream
Of egos fearing what they lack,
So they attack or turn their backs,
Since her fullness can only be tolerated in fragments.


If you want to stay in your comfort zone,
By all means go ahead, regress.
But don’t expect me to conform.

I don’t operate for likes,
Or to have people understanding me anyway. I know all wisdom seekers were also once never understood,
So I don’t expect you to.
But nobody told me how lonely
This path of Truth was to be walked upon.

This is the ache of the mystic,
The healer, the truth teller
The one who feels so much, Sees so deeply
Yet must often walk
Without being truly met

Still…

I wish you could See Me.