blue butterfly – the wallflower

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She wrote love letters to the monsters under the bed

Made of papier-mâché barricades

And arranging bear bones into swords.

 

She was alive alive alive and they were dead.

Some inside the trinket box in the shape of an elephant

And the rest in the waste basket case, alone

 

She was always alone, picking roses from next door

And pressing them between pages of hardback books

Snapping the stalk in half and watching the sap ooze

Onto the words and smudging them, watching the ink run.

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