Butterfly Guts

Older Sister.

Little Brother.

They pass the time by picking on each other.

“Do you know that once a caterpillar turns into a

Butterfly, it only lives for one more day?”

Brother doesn’t dare question Sister.

Sister knows everything.

Sister can even count to one hundred.

Brother blindly believes Sister for way too long.

Brother speeds down I-75, singing a song.

Butterfly ruptures on windshield like an ejaculation.

Brother stops and cringes at his own reaction.

“Once a caterpillar turns into a butterfly, does

It really only live for one more day?”

If this is true, then Brother feels okay.

If it is not, then Brother feels betrayed.

It’s that idea of masculinity getting in the way.

Brother tries to ignore the booger colored

Blotch on his windshield.

Brother goes for the wipers but hesitates.

While someone, somewhere, masturbates.

What kind of memorial is that?

What’s the use of getting sentimental?

If Sister was here she’d have an answer.

Instead, she died at 25 from cancer.

The lime smudge sizzles like a steak.

As the sun rises up from daybreak.

The light beam blinds Brother.

But the smear glistens like a stained glass window.

Soon Brother’s wife will be a widow.


Why can’t I make two sandwiches?

Why can’t I make two sandwiches?

You don’t have to like ‘em.

Heck, you don’t even have to eat ‘em

In fact, don’t eat ‘em,

Please don’t eat my two sandwiches.

I don’t wanna know what you think of ‘em.

That ain’t true; I do wanna know what you think of ‘em.

But I know you won’t tell me the truth, the real truth.

The truth I really need to hear, the truth that I desperately

Want to hear. Even if you told me the truth, who’s to say

I’d even believe you? I probably wouldn’t because

Everyone knows that the only real truth is the truth

That’s harsh. What good is truth that’s kind? It just

Fattens you up and makes you grin like some horny orangutan.

Fuck Mick Jagger. I’m making two sandwiches.

I don’t care who eats ‘em.

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