(butterfly). i couldn’t whistle until i was 16. i vowed if i ever learned how i would never stop. now almost ten years later i whistle incessantly.

poetry

stuck to the ground and crawling
squirming
knowing you’re the disgusting one
people feed to spiders then observe dying
it could be you in that web
having your insides made slurpee
sucked out. so
crawling into reclusion
build yourself a home with
walls thinner than cardboard
cold when it rains

emerging
i dont blame you for ALWAYS
being in flight
i’m just shocked i never see
you lounging around
basking in your own vanity