butterflygun

I run my hands Over the small of my back in the dark. And excitement Builds a small fire, a sick feeling like desire. Beneath my touch, my bones dip and carve. The skin is taut across my hips. I think of drums and drum beats A deep rhythm rocking In me And I stretch back with a thrill Ribcage exposed Tips of my fingers tracing The length of each curved bone The ins and outs of the framework of my body And as I think of how more and more of me disappears with each and every day and how the bones just remain I smile Bright in the dark

This is tough For me to feel I'll need to get past My insecurities I'm a selfish Strung out girl You'll need to know that If you stay But the way things are now I'm being honest The way you called that night I'm being honest The way you're so kind to me I'm being honest I want more I want more The way things are now I'm being honest The way I see you around town I'm being honest Please know I'm not alright But I'm honest And I want more I want more The simple thing is I think you're worth it And I was hoping You'd stick around And I get it If you don't, And I'll be Okay But I was hoping You'd stay For a while

If you could write I'd wonder what you would write about If. Would you write about how you felt? Would you write about what you think? Would you write the truth as it is or as you see it? Would you write about how I'd made you feel -- however fleeting. Or about how she makes you feel? Could you describe the way she took you by surprise? The way you described to me I saw her today, you know If you could write I'd wonder if you'd be able to write about the differences between the two of us. If you would know me well enough to tell the difference. If you could write I would devour your work I would scour your work looking for th

 Once upon a time, there were women. There were women on the beach, women by swimming pools, women with bright colored nails and shrouded by hoodies, women stepping into the street with expectation in their eyes, women smiling knowingly, serenely, wildly, women in dresses, jeans, bikinis, punk jackets. There were women on her wall and on her easel. Women covering the stacks of canvases leaning against her kitchen table, women carved into her coffee table, into the wood of her bookshelves, windowsills, kitchen countertops. There were paintings of mermaids, not mermen. The skeletons in her closet were probably female. "What is it about th

It’s funny what kind of nightmares lurk about when you close your eyes. The eyes shut, liquor-slip and stitched closed by flickers of ignorance or the doughy blanket of sleep, and then out they come—the things that dance in the corners of your sight. Only this time they will not leave. They stay out and about, sheathed by the dark, all lashing tails and furious veins beneath the lava skin, ancient and mottled and yet in some places, those underbelly places, they must be so vulnerable. The insidious arms, tentacles really, grasping close, a hand or hoof snakes out every now and then, snatching back and vanishing back into shadows.