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.