My fluttering monarch wings aren’t a show of-

Love.

Rather a defect of being denied it,

Here again after I thought happiness found-

Me.

Your northeastern chill demeanor

An icicle that stabbed my heart and your weapon-

Melted

I’m still standing and like cupid with his arrow

I’m bleeding all of you.

I never said I wanted it to be easy hue

Of a dark blood red love.

XX Erin N. Buckley xx