- the mothballs in my stomach swallowed all your butterflies. a cocoon of death lies within me; i rubbed against your dust-ridden wings and sang a song of suicide to you. sleep now, child,
close your eyes and take flight
from this frightful edge of life
and i will guide you through. filling your bones with ache, i will turn your jagged fingers into plows and you will sow my seed - kiss the things you love, sweet dear, and harvest all these years alone. the rocks in your heart will know when your deeds are done.