Bar-Prowling Lepidopterist

Both a typical evening at a bar (which I usually avoid like the plague), as well as an attempt to understand the spiritual principle that everyone is another you.

You've got a look in your eyes that says
"my favourite animal is the butterfly".
and fingers messily stained with all
the colours of their wings.
You lean in abruptly so slur something in her ear,
and I see your eyes close as you sniff her hair.

It feels like watching a great white circle a seal,
your fingers twitching as she brushes you aside.
I can tell you think she's fragile,
you want to feel the cracks beneath her skin.
Please let me show you the vulgar artwork of fragility,
as I paper cut the corners of your gaping mouth,
and insert splinters into your eyelids.

I remember hearing somewhere that everyone
is just a part of my reflection.
That must explain this overwhelming need
to shatter my knuckles with a hammer,
until my hands look like tattered butterfly wings.