Don't trust the beautiful things

An angry swarm of butterflies swirls in the pit
of my stomach. I can feel them making their way up
into my lungs, their gentle wings making precise
paper cuts inside me—

all over—
every second.

Sometimes I get lonely and I whisper to them.
Oh little butterflies, what have I done?

But they just cling to my heart,
which beats furiously,
unable to shake them off.

Sometimes they drive me crazy and
I want to cry and drown them.

I want the salt of my tears
to dry their wings until they are crippled and broken
and dead. I want to scream so shrilly that I scare them
out of my body.

I want these stupid, beautiful things
to just get the fuck out of me, away from me, forever—

Oh you bullshit butterflies,
I’ll miss you when you’re dead.

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