Little butterflies, flutter flutter, under my little ribs. This is a disease. Love bug or stomach bug, who knows the difference? If there even is one. Regardless, it evolves, waiting to burst from their cocoons, budding under my ribs.
All rights reserved © 2023 Josephine Joyil
Cats out of the bag now, Let it play in the yard, Get a lay of the land, And learn if the dark fabric Was home or hell.
The land won’t be kind, It never is. Cursed apples and forbidden trees, Pretty sickness waits to settle, Health demand a sacrifice.
But play! If there’s still a yard. Tell me, Is that heat you feel A gentle summers kiss Or the paint peeling from the walls?
Let the cat return to its bag. That fabric was neither home nor hell. It kept that kitten safe from both. Hope and loss and all other poison, Can’t burrow into that bag.
But do you want that, feline friend? You’re out of the bag now. The light may be from dawn or danger, But nonetheless, You won’t ever be in the dark.
All rights reserved © 2023 Josephine Joyil
