i caught a monarch butterfly / and felt the beat of its wings, / soft like a pulse against my palms. / paper thin, / i cradled it, i spoke softly / i cried while ripping off its wings / but i was only doing / what many have done to me.
this, at least, is familiar. the dull lull / between 1am and 5am: the quiet pocket of space / where nothing is expected of me, the ache behind eyes, / the slope of a body / that might be mine, where i am nothing / but soft moonlight and / the hesitant things
i whisper to the softness.