Breath of a Butterfly

On clear days when black limbs cut through the sky like stolen breath,
Butterflies go to rest in the mouths of men hardened
And loved
By the sun.
Their lips trace the soft edges of hard letters,
Savoring the way vowels collide into consonants,
Questioning the way butterflies find comfort in the cocoons of their mouths.
They watch as these small insects crawl in and undo themselves.
Sweat skillfully cuts through the chestnut shells of these chestnut men,
Breaking them down piece by piece,
Until they’re ragged
Naked
And tender.
The soft parts of their soul watch me
Before they stiffen under the sun’s exhale.
They prepare these butterflies for flight.
Dangerous and angry,
I see them aim for the sweetness of my mouth,
Watching as man and creature become tense.
Their eyes are bright,
Smiles waiting in crooked anticipation.
These soft and hard men,
With their soft and hard mouths,
Look at me.
Through me.
Over me.
And let their trapped creatures fly to meet me.
Beautiful and sad.
Salt water floods my mouth,
Maybe they won’t like the taste.
Too salty. Too unyielding. Too unwanting.
Maybe this will only make them want it more.
The flight of the butterfly begins.
The empty mouths of these too-hard men trace too-hard letters once more,
Finding solace in the names they’ve given me
Not the name I own.
When their tiny winged offspring fall into me and die,
Crushed by the firm weight of my palm,
They stare in silence.
Eyes like stone.
Smiles nonexistent.
They take their tongues out of their mouths
And search one last time for a name they deem fitting for the girl who kills butterflies.
It rolls out of their mouths as gently as their winged minions.
Like spit.
Acidic and ugly.
Threatening.

Their lips form harsh letters that form harsh words
That leave me undressed
And afraid.
I watch as their hands,
First free and soft,
Mold into fists.

Will this be the day my own people steal my breath?
Will this be the day I die with butterflies on my breath?