Butterflies

It's almost 2 in the morning and
your guard has
 been slipping,

words
emotion
soul
spilling,
you placed 

butterflies in my 

chest and I 

can hear them beat;
but now it's
the grey afternoon
and somewhere in my dizziness
the wall has been
fortified again,
the warmth is cut off
and the butterflies are
cocooned
and I don't know
if I can hear them
anymore.

Sand

They say this
Isn't me,
That I'm not this girl
Who tears herself down in the middle of the night
To tears;
But I guess
You've picked open scabs
That I thought had healed,
Leaving behind a raw lump
Of sinking deja vu,
And everything has been reduced
To sand slipping between my fingers
So when I grasp at it
More grains slip past
While I can only watch,
Carefully built sandcastles
Breaking apart in tempering winds
And I
Am just helpless.

Buzz

There's a buzz

that hums in

my chest,

in the greyed out

feelings

that sets my bones

 ajar,

and drowns out

affection in

deafening white noise,

while ink runs

down my fingers

with words

unwritten,

unsaid.