Pink sheets of paper fold over my body and
I become rain. These butterflies around me crumple,
dripping ink, black and pink and
some color that makes me cover my mouth.
I see ruins around me--
a novel, a book of poems, a list of
reasons to keep living, a straightforward example
of my spectacular mistakes and the stains they
make on doubtful surfaces.
And in the end, or whatever could substitute for it,
a shadow of a clenched fist, suspended in the last sunbeam
to ever strike a retina.
I become rain. These butterflies around me crumple,
dripping ink, black and pink and
some color that makes me cover my mouth.
I see ruins around me--
a novel, a book of poems, a list of
reasons to keep living, a straightforward example
of my spectacular mistakes and the stains they
make on doubtful surfaces.
And in the end, or whatever could substitute for it,
a shadow of a clenched fist, suspended in the last sunbeam
to ever strike a retina.