i dissect butterfly wings and place

the stained-glass shards of beauty

lifted from their corpses under my

plastic-wrap flesh, in some sad, sweet

hope that i can become as beautiful as

the bugs that you were compelled to

destroy because of their obstinate splendor.


i take mascara and eyeliner

to my face and try to draw on

some pretty or perfect emotion, but

i end up looking like a clown, which

is sort of really funny because of

how numb and sorrowful i have become

just to become appealing to you.


i take the mutilated face of a shaving

razor to my skin and hack out the

splinters of butterfly beauty because

you cannot stand the sight of the scars

that i left implanting the broken wings.

(don't you know that I would do anything,

anything, anything for you? don't you care?)


i pluck off all of your eyelashes

like a lover pulling daisy petals

in the sunset-splashed afternoon,

and i peel away your flesh like a

native stripping away the bitter

skin of an exotic fruit,

just so maybe i might not love you

quite so hopelessly. maybe without

your looks, it might be a little easier to

l e t g o .

(i try to make myself prettier for you,

always forgetting that even if i did look

like her, you still wouldn't love me)