“I’m not hurt”, I’ll say, painted apathy,
as my toes curl, crooked nails
cringing into the carpet, hoping
to root themselves in misguided honesty.
My stomach rages, as a hurried breakfast
shipwrecks itself, an afternoon tragedy,
on top of the dying butterflies.
Because he didn’t hurt me, I know
this is not an act of cerebral treason
or preemptive protection against them,
armed with their lily intentions, forced grins,
but a half acceptance that I’d never
even settled in his lap, half-hearted diversion,
no more than a feather weight attraction,
still trapped in eight months ago.