Self Saboteur

A poem.

A clackety-clack in
the gut might be butterflies
or indigestion.

Wings of moths
fluttering
about open flames,

courting the end
of rerun tv dinner neon nights
and cold dark beds…

Those wings
flutter too close to death,
too close to vital organs.

The heart is a finicky
pickled brute encased in feathery emotives,
protected from the flames

and all too close
to butterfly wings
flittering against internal pieces —

eyelashes rubbing
supple skin,
lips licked, gaze trailed.

Mothdust falls on
doorbells sagging underneath
flickering porch light —

the fluttering ceases,
wings plucked,
dust settled, untouched.