Butterflies

 

Already gagging
on heart shaped thoughts.

I know the fluttering  
is just a sputtering flame
of chemical reactions –  
a bodily function.

But with those lips pressed
against my back,
the butterflies in my chest
disable the synapse
and I forget all I ever learned
about men, all the things I know
about myself, and everything
I found out the hard way
in high school.

An optimistic trickle falls,
barbed and tugging,
nearly begging,
my weakened, little brain arguing,
an ineffectual corpse,
limp with love, madly trying
to pin down the butterflies
and name them
before they can dart away.

I’m sticking with my sick, little
lack of hope, preparing myself
for the day I must walk away
from sweet skin and words,
these stolen breaths.

I catch a butterfly on my finger
and imagine crushing it in my hand.
Its wings as real as I feel.
It clutches my skin,
and we are both caught
taking hold of all the useless
hope in the world.