Mary’s Fire


A butterfly with wings of fire landed on my finger while my eyes were closed and slowly fanned its wings. I watch as it rubs it’s tiny face and wonder if it ever gets that good stretch. Like the kind you get when your body convulses and it’s almost as good as an orgasm. I wonder could I be with anyone else this long, this way? I tack photos on the wall of all my past lovers and throw away the ones that had no meaning. You know, the experiments and the times I was someone else’s experiment and nothing else. They weren’t a waste, just not worth looking at. Staring at the leftovers, I recall all the times they stroked my hair or pulled me close when I was full of snots and tears. Not many were left on the wall, but that doesn’t matter. He lays there watching…

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