Deeper

There was blood on the butterfly's wings.
The traumatized thing
can't fly anymore.
And her words were painted bright red
in the air of what's been said
like a hidden trap door.
So we fall to the grave of her mouth,
like her head is a house
and we're stuck in the core.

Feasting on the crumbs left behind.
Sucking on our thumbs,
We're still blind.
Reaching out in the dark,
to take a closer look
of the inside of our coffins
and our life skinned on a hook.

I take in what was said
'cause I'm like an orphanage.
But the sentence is a weapon,
Making reality seem real,
'cause before it was words
it was just an idea.
Now it's transformed into
something we can't take back.
Saying it only makes it worse
than leaving it an unspoken fact.