inhale, inhale, inhale

i’m pretty sure that butterflies are a metaphor, in the same way that
i’m pretty sure that diseases are a cure for the human condition.
i’m beginning to suspect that i’ll never be happy, and i’m beginning to suspect that that’s a good thing. i hope i’m not.

a little propriety.
a smidgen of decorum.
a concord of accordance according to the ants, and the liars, and the neurons, and the caterpillars becoming literary devices.

synapses on fire. molotov cocktails of half-drunk kool-aid. a smile is a grimace you’re not allowed to make.
breathe in.
breathe in.
breathe in.
don’t exhale. don’t ever exhale, you worthless conglomeration of fucking atoms. i’m fucking furious that i’m made of carbon.


if your lungs expand enough, you’ll float away. if you float away, evolution will find it necessary to give you wings, and then you, too, can become a metaphor.

or at least a simile.

or at least, be forgotten.

maybe then you’ll be clever.

(i think?)