the wasp in my stomach lost her wings
on December 28^th in the suburbs of Philadelphia.
what was aflutter snapped as the syllables
fell out of me and on to
the once-white table. yes, it’s true
i was never suitably grateful
for the taste of your sweatshirt and
the scratch of your voice from 3,000 proper miles.
later, when this haunts me, it won’t be your face,
but the switchblade sound my heart made
that burns the blue girl at her gas stove.
tell me that i’m selfish.
agaonidae only live for 48 hours and this wasn’t my first mistake.
i would go back if i was not wingless,
stuck forever in living amber,
surviving on sequential cups of espresso and absinthe.
i would rechrysalize in new time
and fail to torment you, entirely.
make no mistake, i was the mistake.
please hold that
with you when you never think of me,
with you when i realize, i won’t have flight again.