Sugared Wings
The champagne bubbles in the stomach
Disabled the butterflies' wings,
And turned them into nothing more than crawlers.
The wax of my skin was chipped away
Until the glitter of bones were visible,
So that I could bust open the rib cage
And let the dissolving butterflies free.
Spread-eagle on the sidewalk,
Billowing out clouds of plastic-wrapped powder
That I once knew as the earth,
I watched them struggle to reach the sky.
They circle, and fumble, and drift off,
Couriers of my never-ending hourglass,
Undestined as they are crushed by the horizon.
I watched the couple come along.
He is my childhood, plaster-cast in five-foot-nine,
Looking down at a diamond-fingered girl
With a swollen chest and silvermist eyes.
Back when we were children,
Those eyes were set in emerald,
Lily pads, and ginger ale,
And jade, and adoration.
Those eyes were summer,
And they kept me warm.
Love was not made for children,
But for the pleasure of adults,
To soak them to their wires,
So that they could be kids again.
Kids were not granted hearts, surely.
Kids were not planted loins, purely.
Love was not made for children,
Nor was lust, but we took it anyway,
And sculpted it against our own young curves.
His sides are now chiseled into straight lines,
so that they may fit against the walls,
And his eyes died with the autumn.
But when they were summer?
When they were summer, they warmed me,
Dripped fingertips of ultraviolet
Into my pores, into my veins.
They planted the caterpillars,
Sprouting butterflies when new words coupled them,
Like "You're beautiful,"
"I like you,"
"I love you."
When they were summer, they would heat me,
Waking me up each evening,
Showing me to stage lights I never had seen before.
He pointed them out to me,
Radiating reds and whites,
And then point down to me,
Glowing beneath them,
Smiling.
But now there were no reds, no whites,
No ultraviolet.
No emeralds.
Just straight lines and scratched-out silver
And diamonds that she doesn't deserve.
I nestle in the cracks of that sidewalk,
Hiding from them as they stroll along
On their convener belt.
They laugh--she laughs.
They smile--she smiles.
They are an oil painting, fit for a frame.
They are not children, nor do they love like them.
They are aged with standard and with belts.
They are inferior.
We were perfection.
I am no Mona Lisa,
And perhaps we were crayons instead,
Dipped into a molten candle bed,
Until we were coated.
We were clandestine,
Surreptitious footfalls down hallways,
Dialing nighttime to our ears
So that we could pocket the other's voice
Before we drifted off.
We were all but pure,
But the purest of all.
We came straight from the cane
But now he indulges in aspartame,
Letting it wet his lips
Until his own skin tastes like it.
And my own sugar melted in the fire
Of the false summers that I've trialed,
Which turned up hot rain and stagnant air,
But no butterflies.
I miss the butterflies.
Disabled the butterflies' wings,
And turned them into nothing more than crawlers.
The wax of my skin was chipped away
Until the glitter of bones were visible,
So that I could bust open the rib cage
And let the dissolving butterflies free.
Spread-eagle on the sidewalk,
Billowing out clouds of plastic-wrapped powder
That I once knew as the earth,
I watched them struggle to reach the sky.
They circle, and fumble, and drift off,
Couriers of my never-ending hourglass,
Undestined as they are crushed by the horizon.
I watched the couple come along.
He is my childhood, plaster-cast in five-foot-nine,
Looking down at a diamond-fingered girl
With a swollen chest and silvermist eyes.
Back when we were children,
Those eyes were set in emerald,
Lily pads, and ginger ale,
And jade, and adoration.
Those eyes were summer,
And they kept me warm.
Love was not made for children,
But for the pleasure of adults,
To soak them to their wires,
So that they could be kids again.
Kids were not granted hearts, surely.
Kids were not planted loins, purely.
Love was not made for children,
Nor was lust, but we took it anyway,
And sculpted it against our own young curves.
His sides are now chiseled into straight lines,
so that they may fit against the walls,
And his eyes died with the autumn.
But when they were summer?
When they were summer, they warmed me,
Dripped fingertips of ultraviolet
Into my pores, into my veins.
They planted the caterpillars,
Sprouting butterflies when new words coupled them,
Like "You're beautiful,"
"I like you,"
"I love you."
When they were summer, they would heat me,
Waking me up each evening,
Showing me to stage lights I never had seen before.
He pointed them out to me,
Radiating reds and whites,
And then point down to me,
Glowing beneath them,
Smiling.
But now there were no reds, no whites,
No ultraviolet.
No emeralds.
Just straight lines and scratched-out silver
And diamonds that she doesn't deserve.
I nestle in the cracks of that sidewalk,
Hiding from them as they stroll along
On their convener belt.
They laugh--she laughs.
They smile--she smiles.
They are an oil painting, fit for a frame.
They are not children, nor do they love like them.
They are aged with standard and with belts.
They are inferior.
We were perfection.
I am no Mona Lisa,
And perhaps we were crayons instead,
Dipped into a molten candle bed,
Until we were coated.
We were clandestine,
Surreptitious footfalls down hallways,
Dialing nighttime to our ears
So that we could pocket the other's voice
Before we drifted off.
We were all but pure,
But the purest of all.
We came straight from the cane
But now he indulges in aspartame,
Letting it wet his lips
Until his own skin tastes like it.
And my own sugar melted in the fire
Of the false summers that I've trialed,
Which turned up hot rain and stagnant air,
But no butterflies.
I miss the butterflies.