Butterfly Screams

Photo by Alfred Schrock on Unsplash

Wish only

for the butterfly screams.

Wish only

for the sins of the night.

I’m obviously reluctant

to do any real talking.

Images,

your image of me;

images,

my image of you.

We are merely illusions,

made by your delusions —

and built by silent maggots.

For a butterfly screams

for eternity,

for lust,

for connections

to the other side of you.

I tumbled into your bed, your head,

satiated by late-night desperate groping

filled with misogynistic hoping.

I want to hear my soul

scream — and heard by all the heavens,

no longer fed by hope

but longing to be whole.

Tired of demigods and dreamers

I no longer look

to connect

with your kind —

too shallow to be meaningful.