The hundred year butterfly

I am not going to kill myself.
I am not going to kill myself.
I am not going to kill myself.
It is all I wrote that autumn night.
Blinds open with nothing to see.
My mouth closed with so much to speak.

I never thouht I'd grow up to cry myself to sleep
and write poetry at night.
My future was so barren and empty,
a blank canvas on which I could never draw,
never see.
mine but which to own only by name;
a house with no walls is no house at all,
only a failed plan to be forgotten and lost in time,
repeated over and over again by lost words
written on paper. each scrawled in different order,
colours and fonts. but all telling the exact same story.

A lost childhood, lack of appetite, and a lonely gravestone
on which landfill will sit one day.

A lack of courage cannot be seen as a victory.
It is always the good that die and that much is a fact.
I wonder when I will be considered good, clean, and brave.
As for now I am a butterfly, melting away into a caterpillar,
endlessly starving itself from all nourishment and shrinking back into it's
egg.
never to be seen again.

My mouth opens and nothing is said.
The blinds close and the sun searches for me.
I am not going to kill myself.
I am not going to kill myself.
I am not going to kill myself.