There’s a butterfly clasp on my bedside table. 
It fell out of my pillowcase last night and fluttered 
down onto freshly washed sheets the way that 
butterflies do, especially once they’re dead: like 
an exit wound with no entry or the final stop on 
abandoned train tracks. 
Have you ever ridden a train to the end of the line? 
Have you ever stayed there, alone and quiet, as 
the rest of the world finds its way home, while 
the screeching metal on metal drags you, flesh 
inside metal, you without a choice, you without a plan, you 
unbloody, you raw and aching, you still breathing to the same
place it gets quiet night after night after night after I knew 
it was dead. The butterfly clasp, that is. 
I knew it was dead because I’ve always worn the 
kind of hoops that have no clasp, no frail little wings 
to keep them alive in the air. They hang, clinging 
onto flesh for dear life the way I cling to any body 
foolish enough to get within range until I find myself 
alone with a bloody scrap of meat and skin, having 
clawed right through the bicep, the thigh, the 
stomach, the throat that slipped in close. 
An earring clasp I pick from my sheets and keep on my bedside 

Featured photo by Mick Haupt on Unsplash.


In a dream, you saw a way to survive, and you were filled with joy.


Help keep the lights on.

find us on: