I have often dreamed of a boy who is the butterfly
coveted not for his monarchy but for the lightness
of his touch when he mistakes my palms for a bed
of flowers nourishing enough to never abandon…

Yet aren’t these hands more like deathtraps when
my oily fingertips threaten to keep him from flying?
Hasn’t my possessiveness made me the infamous
flypaper woman, anxious to pluck off each lover’s

wings in remembrance for every “he loves me not”
uttered when even “he loves me” consoles me less
than the corpses I’ve collected like permanently ink
-stained skin. Yet isn’t my song now rewritten by my

intention to compost the stories that don’t serve my
growth? Am I not becoming the meadow I’ve always
been, learning to love like spring’s bounty of highest
hung fruit, sunkissed with patience for he whom my

heart longs to bloom for so I will not drown him in leaf
litter expectations or subject him to the hunger of my
winter months or the searing passion of summer that
turns love to drought. Instead, I shall practice being

the open ground, the nectarine naked rain inviting my
lover land so we can spread truth like pollen saves life
from destruction when our love becomes the antithesis;
equal parts water and wind healing earth with creation.


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