moth wings and fireflies
why does the sound of my own heart beating bring me to such a level of gloom and misery?
applause, for whom? each beat, stutter, repeat, reminds me of my mortality. my powerlessness.
my limbs are nothing more than tamed appendages;
why could we have not
been fabricated with feathered wings? buttery scales? tempered dreams?
why! i scream into the abyss of his black eyes.
he tasted amazing after that one night he made me cry.
i washed down the night terrors
with cheap wine. i held on because i thought i heard an echo,
but maybe it was nothing but moth wings and fireflies…
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 