Your fingers in
May
Had more frost
Than mine could in December.
Even when you clipped
The wings off the
Dying butterfly,
I echoed
Your callous laughter,
Not realising, that when your fingers
Graze down my spine
They are searching for
Other fragile wings
To tear apart.
I have felt
Your fingers inside me
Curl into a question mark,
Searching for answers
Between my thighs…
Did they pause in astonishment…?
Did they not know
Of wings that find a way
To bleed from
The tiniest cracks…?
Your fingers…
Played me.
Berated me.
Unmade me.
In my humiliation,
I chopped off mine.
6 October 2017
(image courtesy: @petitesluxures)