you believe love in my hands
becomes a phalanx of butterflies with
spun-sugar wings
as though moths do not sleep on shoulders,
nor monarchs rest in cages

(i could show you how easily wings are pinned.
you think only of what you can hear and see
but i am so many silhouettes–
how can you know which is my shadow?

go to hell, i want to tell you
you who insist my heart is only a flimsy terra cotta bowl
shaped slick with grooves too smooth to catch forevers on,
you who spy spider cracks in the clay:

you forget the existence of glue.
(or is there none where you’re from?)

and you tell me my affection flies with wings
as weightless as we wish we were, but
you ignore that even the tiny brains of birds
know how to find home–

you refuse to see through my glass walls
to the moths i never released.)

i want to love you so hard it might crush you
but this, too, will pass.


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