They've always said that butterflies living your stomach is supposed to be a good thing, especially when you feel them flutter, but for the past year my heart has beat faster and harder than the butterflies of all the people in the world who feel like they're in love, and I don't know if it's a good thing or not, because for months I have been plagued with drum beats in my chest to match the rhythmic twitches in my neck and the taps of my feet before I start running. I used to be able to breathe so long ago even with every toxin I inhaled and every person I exhaled with it, because I just kept running and running, away from all that there was or could have been or continually is, and away from the time I no longer had that I am constantly wasting, but it only seemed to make my lungs weaker and before I knew it, I couldn't breathe, my heart was pumping so fast but it wasn't circulating blood to any part of my body I needed. The couch became my home, sleep another personality that continued to eluded me, because 13 hours a day wasn't enough, much like 13 pills weren't enough to keep myself at bay or the emptiness away even when my body was tangled in hers or with my hands between her hips because fear always has been an inkwelled tattoo and anxiety has prohibited laser removal, so I got it covered up with false hope and lies I continued to tell to myself to make it seem like I wasn't as bad of a person that I actually was, and when she kissed her and told me, I was relieved because I knew I didn't have to lie anymore but I did anyways. The next day I spent 20 minutes collapsed on the floor of my shower and the bottom of the bathtub filled with salt water. And every morning after I woke up to a butterfly garden in my chest and a hornets nest in my stomach so I tried to smoke them out every day and hit them with rocks but nicotine and cover tablets could never suffice, and gusts of wind that I would try to inhale and exhale would only let them fly.

And then there was you. And sound of your voice. And you put them at bay even when she would open the gates. And this is where it gets hard, because I've never had such writers block my whole life until I actually tried writing something with a meaning about cement shoes I wasn't afraid to put on. And sometimes my hands and body still shake, and I get butterflies, but this time they're in the right places, and even when they're not, I know they will be when I hear your voice again or read your name. When I touch you, your face, your body, your lips, it's not because my intentions are impure, it's because I love them and I want to know all of them and all of the atoms that make up the physical you, an that's only small part of you that I love. When I read your mind, your eyes, and your words, I never want to stop indulging myself because I want to fill myself with you, and even though my hands, body, and heart shake because of it, because I can't fathom the cruel intentions put on you, all I want is to use them all to hold you so tight that they leave bruises from my arms like the ones you let my teeth leave on your neck, and the three below your heart to tell you, "l love you".