To hell with butterflies
your voice is a pigpen riot
knocking things over
inside of me.
Refusing to put them back
where they used to belong.

A blushing cheek? Since when.
Your eyes can catalyze
a flamming blood flow
to wherever they choose to roam.
Stomping spearishly on me
even from across the room.

To hell with chince and gush
To hell with pretty
To hell with love
as they say it is.

I’d rather be knocked over
with my breath stolen in absolute
Than hum a tickle tune
of monarchs migrating through my middle.

Oh the fragility of a moth.
The romance of a mess.

Oh the punishment a butterfly would seem
after your pigpen riot.