I'm a butterfly
unsure 
it will be beautiful.
I'd rather stay in my 
cocoon

with the memory of
a tangerine sting;
acidic colours
burnt
in my mind,
on my skin.

I'm lace
around the edges
of a puddle of mud.
I sit;
a dirty doll
in a playhouse

and I don't release
myself
from the cold metal
chains that bind me
like possessive kisses
against my wrists.

Escape is not
my dream
I suppose.

My hands are cold,
my nerves are numb,
I am in a paralysis
of thought

and I think I could learn
  someday
to stop hating 
myself
with these barbed-wire doubts,
these knife insecurities.

What I know 
is that I love you
more than anything,
than everything

despite the clutter
in this limited space;
haphazard dust,
haphazard lies
which press my hands
around my throat.

It is not escape,
it is freedom.

It is
my right.

To live,
to love
without opposal
or nuclear bombs

but in the present
that isn't so.

Shadows nest
amongst my arteries
and I bleed
on the inside
now.