slow suffocation

I tried to tell you once:
butterflies in glass jars are just (another
kind of) dead, those feathery wings beating out
their own mortality, a senseless hum
drowned out by the gentle push of
air in that final second before

(it's caught)

in still frames on a smudged lens
that perfect image blurred like the words
falling from your lips

in that second

I detect sunrise and sunset—
a beginning and an end in the same sentence
(you just couldn't hear it)
you're always a little too busy pulling off
those dream-tipped wings to see the logical
conclusion

you said: I sell rejection but make
it sound like art; brilliant brush strokes a
camouflage against reality, Picasso-pretty
in a monochromatic mist, that soundtrack of
redundancy our mantra

repetition's just (another kind of)
silence; a plethora of lies that doesn't quite ring true
woven skillfully into a masterful seduction
you're always a little too content
spidering your tales to realize what you're
missing

butterflies in glass jars don't last forever
those vibrant oils fade and
even echoes can forget your voice

you said: it's not quite manipulation
I never bother to correct you
because—

baby, it's not (just) me you're lying to


I need to start editing before I post these things… FP has decreed that the formatting will be off and cannot be fixed. That said, feedback and comments would be adored and savored and much appreciated (even if you hate it).

-K