Entomology

Last night, my stomach ascended my throat and crawled out of my mouth, splaying itself on the floor as a grotesque butterfly pinned down under a harsh light. And there were butterflies, but they were broken. They were blue like sapphires and red like a first kiss, but their wings were crooked and frayed. They slowly spilled out of my stomach like strangers with tousled hair and twisted spines shuffling out of unfamiliar houses at sunrise. But there are no more sunrises here—only constant twilight. Who would’ve thought that lips on lips could break me down to flesh and bone? Now my skull is filled with buzzing—buzzing—buzzing. Someone quiet the hive because the comb never had honey in it anyway. Let the beekeeper breathe his noxious cloud into my lungs so that I may find peace in a deep slumber, with sod as my blanket and bedrock as my pillow.