Clipped.

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.

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