It’s easy to turn a person into poetry when you spend enough time apart,

So before you say too much,
Please,

First go to where your heart
can rest it’s pumping gun,

I am not your freedom
I will not set you free,

I’m still mending puncture wounds
others have left
in my vital organs,

The butterfly sanctuary you see in me
is a false interpretation
of what lies before you in unmuddled sight;

I’m a tiger’s den
up in flames,

So don’t come too close
You might burn your fingers,

and I don’t want to be the one that turns your heart to black ashes,

That rips those red buds from their stems,

That spits on the last slice of cake,

That uses the last clean towel,

That spends all the spare change in the couch,

That breathes cold air down a warm spine,

I want to tell you to run away,

But I can’t; I want you to stay…

But maybe you should go now,

and retreat

away from my ashes and drowned bones,

back to where you left off…