Butterflies in the Closet

Please. 
Refrain from speaking
about the butterflies
in the closet
that whisper
about how his hair smells of
orange marmalade.
I don't think 
that my hands
trembling
like dead autumn leaves
could hold the words
that say that
he
has found another
butterfly in the closet.
Dopamine 
is not worth
eating away my mind
and numbing my body
with the crash of gray static
coming from sweet, strawberry lips
lips sweeter than mine,
softer
than the bloody scabs
and hard, crusted skin
that cover my. mouth
which too seldomly opens.
Dopamine
is not worth
listening to all those heavy words
dripping off the tongues
of those butterflies
in the closet
that tell me his hair
smells of orange marmalade
as if I don't already know
as if I don't already know
as if
I don't already know
the feeling of that marmalade hair
soft in between my fingers
soft along the side of my neck
soft on the dirty, frigid tile
of the closet that was once
only ours.
So please. 
Refrain from speaking
about the butterflies
in the closet
that lured away the boy
with hair that smells
of orange marmalade.

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