There are sometimes feelings
you must ignore for the sake of functionality.
There are sometimes butterflies
whose wings must be clipped
and I will admit that I am tragically lonesome
and I will admit that you are captivating
and I am trying to forget
feelings far too dangerous to shrug off as the delicacy of an almost flutter.
You could slide those shears across every vein in my body
but the blood will still rush to my face every time you say my name.
I have pretended for far too long
to have found flight in someone else’s voice,
never admitting to anyone but the page
that yours sticks to my clothing like campfire smoke when I am pretending to breathe clean air.
And there are sometimes palpitations
that you can’t do anything about
so I will keep clipping butterfly wings
and you will never know that they’ve flown.