The Hell Butterfly

Archive for May, 2019

– The Request –

Draw your attention to your request.
I have attached the application
For the post of the night.
I have been dealing with some of the unpleasant things.
Have to do it.
I’ve been trying to get that to work.
I have discussed the matter with the client
And they said they would like to stay
For the next few weeks and we will have to wait.
I’m tired of having to wait for the next one.
I’m going to be sad leaving
And said I will be back.
I am looking for a while but I’m afraid.
Get a better deal.
I’m going to be a poet.
I’m a good fighter but I don’t know what you meant.
I’ve seen the last few years of my life gone,
I am free and I love you.
I’m so sorry.
Is the best person in the world to help me
The first one I think is a bit more than I am?
I’ve just had a look at the bigger picture.
I am looking for something to do with that.


How I Came To Love You

The first time I made love to you

I recall nothing but a tangle of limbs and breath and sweat,

pulsating, writhing like some unbridled beast of lust.

The second time I made love to you

we locked eyes and you told me I was perfect,

I learned your rhythm and danced to it until you sang.

We used to sing together when the song of you and I was playing

in the jukebox of our love’s bedroom

and, god, we harmonized so flawlessly.

The third time I made love to you

I felt the rapid beating of two hearts and it felt like one,

so close it seemed that nothing could tear them back

into two separate fleshy drums of blood and passion.

The fourth time I made love to you

I thought we fell away from those same old walls and emerged

two faces smiling at each other in a future we had built, together, in these moments.

The fifth time I made love to you

you had your eyes closed from the start, and I felt bliss,

believed that when I closed mine we would see each other again

behind the lids we drew across the windows of our lives without each other.

The fifth time I made love to you

you talked dirty to me which, you knew, only made me want you more.

The fifth time I made love to you

you called me “slut” and I didn’t care, because I was your slut

and this was my body given to you with consent

because I knew that yours was mine too,

our two structures intertwining into a foundation far too strong to topple.

The fifth time I made love to you

I stopped making love entirely because it was already made.

 

This love was always being made;

between the sheets,

beneath the stars,

in long-gazes held,

in smiles I kept for only you,

in energy spent running to you when you called.

 

The fifth time I made love to you

I whispered it in your ear, “I love you,”

and you didn’t flinch.

All things were tinted rose and I believed that meant you were not scared,

that you felt it too.

I whispered it again and you said nothing

but fucked me like you’d never get another chance.

The fifth time I made love to you

I wondered if I was the sole creator, this treasure made only by myself,

you a silent non-contributor to the blooming love,

yes it was love,

that we, I, designed and felt you shared.

 

Time passed, my love held fast, and we did not make love again.

I became your whore, paid in cheap compliments and batted eyelashes,

your charm as sharp and wonderful as ever I remembered.

Time passed, and silence was our newfound symphony.

My love was made long ago,

I showed you mine,

but you never showed me yours,

and so I waited,

and hoped,

that maybe

you could make some for me too.


BMI Valentine

When sifting through old photos of myself,

the words, “I looked thinner back then”

still sound an awful lot like,

“I looked better back then”.

On days when I’m too fat

to fit into my shadow

I daydream myself nostalgic

for times when I was 17 and sexy,

“BMI Valentine” carved lovely

from Cupid’s own chubby cheeks

into dimpled smiles of the

not-quite-underweight,

too-fat-for-skinny-jeans,

little darling thin-fat girl.

Most days though,

I simply shut out the pain

of waistbands cutting

lines

into my spare tire,

try not to move to the ungainly

rhythm

of reverberating steps

of the Waltz of the Cellulite.

Instead,

I dig through old letters

sent to myself

in skinnier times

on Valentine’s days when I was alone

and trembling

crying

and read back the to-me-from-me’s,

“BMI Valentine” carved lovely

from my own chubby cheeks

into forced smiles of the

not-quite-overweight,

too-fat-for-single-layer-outfits,

little darling thin-fat girl.