You look at me through thick black eyelashes, your hair hangs around
your shoulders like a twisted scarf. Your eyes are dark, the whites are not so
white, your lips are parted, your are pushing to get words out but none come.
Something rips inside you, this person who always had words, suddenly bereft of
speech and meaning.
I hand you what you need, you stretch your neck back, tie up the hair,
scratch your arm. I touch your bony white shoulders, they belong to no one, sort of.
“Come back” I say. “Butterfly, I’ll make you feel better.”
Your lips turn red and ugly. I don’t know if you can hear me. You
give me that look where you can see but not quite see. I wonder if I should use
your body for fun again. You don’t seem to mind. You are a vegetarian eating
meat, you have no idea what you like, what you mind, I can do whatever I want
to you.
I feel guilty some days, keeping you in this place. But you couldn’t
make it on the outside, I am your best hopes and your worst fears, the number 8
in the tarot deck. Without me you would die. Its not really so bad, being my prisoner.
Butterfly I’ll make you feel better.
