There’s a dead butterfly in my throat.
Its corpse, mummified with the words
I never speak.
Akin to unnerving screams
They all try to escape the pit of my stomach
But I swallow them back
Down with pride.
Each evolving to
Claw their way out of this cage.
I bleed crude lies. Always sour and viscous.
Like -
I forgive myself.
I promise to never force my head below the
Water.
I am happy here!
With clipped wings
They will remain here because
How dare I speak.
How dare I, tell my mother that
I don’t believe her when she says,
“you’re beautiful.”
How dare I, tell my father that I
look for his smile in the faces of men
that don’t love me.
There’s a dead butterfly in my throat
A migrant with a message from my soul
Help. Hell is a place inside my mind.
Real only when death appears.
He sings to me at night. Dances with me til’
my feet grow numb. Mocking
me as I collapse in prayer. Leaving
gentle kisses where my tears
once flowed.
There’s a dead butterfly in my throat
birthed from a fallen chrysalis.
Its broken wings awaiting the wind
the day I speak.
Voice of Cheyanne Alisha Smith
I AM A POET out now! Get your copy at www.CheyanneAlisha.com
