Self-Portrait

Saturday

This is why you should take your anxiety medication.

This morning I vomited 17 dead butterflies, fluttering in the spectral zombie fashion which is so popular nowadays.
But the sickness remains within me, I should have chosen to keep my collection in my pillowcase, instead of the hour glass which I've become. The ethereal, faerie-like creatures fall fatally through, piercing through the walls in revolt. I try to swallow them back down, vainly hold onto the glass to keep it together, but all that happens is it splinters into stars - embedding in my hands to create a beautiful crimson night sky in my palms.
I bequeath this crimson night to one I love and loathe.
I'll bathe you in the night, until my palms whiten and the makeshift stars lose their shine...

17 dead butterflies
Fighting through my neck
Entering the crimson sky
Fluttering plague unto the Wreck.

17 dead butterflies
Wings all painted dead
Once more in my heart reside
When the plague has all been shed.

17 dead butterflies
Presently interred within
And visible behind my eyes
Until the ending again begins...

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