like a rocket with a wet fuse
I sit
dank
waiting for fire
to explode
to be free from here
to be free from false kings

and the jar
where I am held
has become a prison
where butterflies die
and wings
do nothing
but cover weeping eyes

you love this way
like a child
collecting beauty
to show the world
like it's yours
while pretending
it's not
slowly
suffocating
to death.
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