Collection

February 2, 2012
By Anonymous

One Wednesday in December
he took his person to me like
a saw,
cutting past the inner fruit,
spilling ripe and sticky as
warm wine.

I was a butterfly for his collection;
wings spread wide and
stuck with a pin to the
board.

Cello tremors ran through my
hips while he
was flying;
breath serrated like
a butter knife, I was spliced
inside out.

But every little boy
outgrows his bug collection
some day.



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