bulimic flowers purge their scent
as petals fall like comma marks
to sentences without an end
and wind themselves around my neck
amidst a ribbon of truth and lies.
"he loves me not"-
but then again...
i watch them fall
like a casual tumble down a wishing well-
a heads-first spiral without a splash.

you're a weed in the jungle, baby,
and i can't cultivate you all the time-
i am Venus with fly traps to feed
because you know
i like to pluck translucent wings from worms.

you're my butterfly-
my pretty little candlelight
within the neon curves of silhouettes
that shine like light through a vodka shot-

-i could never clip your flight-

but we don't see eye to i
am your favorite lift-
your palm-sized faerie with
a battery operated ON switch
that you know just how to flip but
you can also pull the plug-

we are tied together with broken strings
of things that flew but now are dead so

let.me.go.
(i'm beating here while the sky is falling)

...you'd rather see a slingshot projectile
nestle through my gossamer
than give me up so easily-

we can't unclasp while there's still a chance
so maybe we'll just catch a ride with a rocket ship
'cause we're both too tired of trying to fly.

.

.

(why won't you teach me how to touch the sun?)