Thank you for the butterflies (a poem) - [2016]

Thank you for the butterflies

Thank you for the butterflies you give me –

trapped in the glass jam jar of my stomach,

my walls still sticky and sweet

no matter how many times I rinse myself through.

Thank you for the butterflies

that flutter inside my skin, tickling

with long wings. Their legs stroking and scratching

the thin fabric of my lid. Their proboscis tongues clinging
to my sugary sides.

(That’s how they like it, you said

 – sickly sharp and red – like one too many berries

on a Sunday afternoon,

or one too many spoonfuls of raspberry ripple.)

I poke holes in my belly to let them breathe;

I don't want them to die in me;
but at night,

when they keep me awake with their hummingbird beat,

sometimes
I just want to squeeze my stomach shut,

fill myself with acid and salt,

crush their folded bodies into a thin preserve

and squash them out.  

They unravel my intestines,

leaving me moth-holed
and cocooned,

not knowing how I will emerge

in the morning –

or what I should say if I do,

But thank you, anyway, for the butterflies you give me –

fluttering inside my skin –

their legs so sticky – so sweet.