i'm shallow to judge you by the outside,
instead of by the half-demon that lies within.

but they look like a whisper and
smell like tears,
salty, like a butterfly landing, and
they kiss like the faintest, faintest smell
of my heartbeat of the first November.

when you're sleeping quietly all i want
is to lean in close and
count them over and over again
and take them with me, the tiny pieces of
glass in your skin.

because i know when you open them,
they won't look as beautiful.

you'll start to be violent and snap
the butterfly, cut my whispers,
slap away the tears, and end my heartbeat.

and you won't let them kiss me anymore.