Heart Of Butterfly Wings Poem by Tate Blackman

She covered each eye until all she could see was a sense of security.
She stopped looking in the mirrors.
They lie.
The image over time becomes distorted, grotesque,
Showing emotions instead of beauty.
She dresses quickly as though she could cover her thoughts as easily as the clothing covers her body.
She died at the hands of wisdom.
She fell
Body crash like glass into the tumbler of bourbon
She drank the sorrow away
The days are falling apart.
Scotch tape holds my months together.
Church's become wallets.
Put a dollar in the offering plate so they might offer her mind a place to stay.
She had an oil well connected to her eyes, to pump the life away.
As the world becomes corrupted,
Her mind became constricted.
Her God died at the hands of curiosity,
Knowledge expanded into understanding
She knew that in the end her God was gone
She had a heart of butterfly wings
One touch and it would fly away.
Her depression was a blessing.
Her body told a story of ways she bent to the will of man.
Sometimes to live is to be courageous
She shouldn't have to beg her mind to live indifferent against the threats in her heart.
She heard that love is blind
So she learned braille so maybe she could begin to decipher the meaning
of not being loved.
Politicians say they understand
They know how it feels to have body against will to twist and turn into a man's hand
She understood that all too well
Every life is a story
Some people only contain a page but she held within
an encyclopedia of poems.
They told her that it was all her fault.
What were you wearing?
She had voice recognition in her belly button.
They voices spoke volumes
They dug into her soul with a spoon until
all that remained was an empty plate.
She would knit a cap each time her personality
would change.
They spoke with authority
Intelligence dripping off each vowel.
Yet all they knew was hypocrisy.
She put a picket fence around her body to shield her scars.
Her body was a memorial to each tear that cut her skin.
She was the house destroyed by a tsunami
Her silence was violence.
One more step and she would be airborne,
Released.
Her beauty was a window pane.
Clouded over.
Her breath stuck to it while she traced her name.
Scars gather like bangles around her wrist.
Listen to them ring.
Bruised knees heal faster than broken hearts.
They wait like piranhas,
Jaws snapping,
Closing shut over the intangible recess of her mind.
Somedays she felt like Jesus.
Holding tight to man when all man gives back is broken virginity.
Their cool breath lingers on her skin like ice crystals on door frames,
She shudders every time it begins.
Sometimes it takes a broken man to understand the pain,
People don't listen to the screaming woman.
The held her hand while she painted her mind in red.
Stare at the white walls so they might pretend
she is alive again.