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We used to dance through the field like feral butterflies.

Our wings grew and our cat feet lifted off the grass,

wind blew us side to side and kissed our bare cheeks.

Our mouths opened wide and we could see everything

as we let our laughter fill the dry air, making music with the birds.

 

The sky tasted strong and sweet,

like being held in Grandma Jo’s soft arms and under her warm gaze

in the frigid air conditioning of our Mckinney house.

You and I strutted through those halls,

because we were the coolest people we knew.

 

But we weren’t really cool at all.

But, still, we grew up

to do a new kind of dance

in the poorly lit, poorly ventilated hall

full of unknowns and familiars

all pulsing and numbing to the elegant drops of Dubstep.

 

Because they were lost, they knew exactly what to do.

Because they were blind, now they could see

the red hot sweat of rage and passion

filling their lungs and coating their eardrums.

 

We were the abstract hand prints painted on young, wet skin,

lit up only when the lights went out.

And with daylight we walk, undead,

with crusty eyes through walls and over buildings

and drown in coffee just to get by.

 

Kat knew, she had seen it all

and what she hadn’t seen would soon be her reality.

She was led down paths and to her fate

on candy leashes and with designer treats.

 

She had to lose herself to know who she never was.

Todo va a estar bien.

Porque eventually the skies would go back to business as usual

and the sun would lean down and brush tears from her eyes.

And lay us both back down in the neon grasses

in a bed of feral butterflies.

 

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