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Shame of the ButterfliesThe Shame of the ButterfliesShame of the Butterflies
Crucify me
(Call me pretty?)
crucify me.
Stick slowly,
the way tar flows on a solstice noon; (you choose the season, you always did) crucify me, but cry for me not a drop.
Wipe the box clean of my necessities
(pus merely accuses,
serves lean function for your eyes, and less for your tales) and throw away the tissue. Leave behind your grin, and a swiftly ebbing me.
Crucify me: call me a miracle; set me free? Not one moment too soon. &n
by ~Hoodi
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