Rorschach Butterflies

There were Rorschach butterflies perched on the peach pits in our stomachs,

our legs traded off trying to run away from ourselves,
causing our torsos to fall in etched games of tic-tac-toe scribbled on one another’s consciousness.
And we’d cry, and we’d shake and we’d go dig up Dionysus from his textbook grave,
just so we could feel ‘fun’ again,
but we are the abandoned children left crying in the basement,
and we will forever remain hungry.
These Solomon blues keep pulling at our few remaining heart-strings crying,
“CARL DIED IN THAT WHITE ROOM,
AND SO DID A PIECE OF US!” 

We exist in a cognitive dissonance,
wondering how time could overlap and make us hear and see things through artificially schizophrenic minds,
wondering how we could’ve been
in our pre-embryonic states,
crying
“THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!”

Our cheeks and hands just as red as Hemmingway’s, 
our hearts running marathons in concordance with one another’s
Lolita’s connoisseur didn’t feel the half of it,
shaking down to his knees in between quotation marks,
he was nothing but the eye on a potato skin in between couch cushions surrounded by oxidized pennies and unpaid parking tickets,
these television set blues have got him down,
as he watches us with an anonymous voyeurism
as our artichoke hearts cry,
“THIS IS IT! THIS IS IT!”

We live on satin and secrets,
I awake to your egg-white pupils and coffee ground beard,
lighting one another up like a drive-by on the 4th of July,
and we both think that for once,
eating from our hearts
may keep our Rorschach butterflies satiated.