The Kind of Love That a Butterfly Has for the Sun

You’re killing me, you know that right?
Because I don’t know how to make a home,
Make a poem,
Outside of my head and you’re stuck in my mind like a song.

You told me that we all had flaws but sugar,
Bent words make the sweetest poems.
And I’ve been writing poems about you for weeks,
Like I could tell the future–

Two weeks ago I told you that I wanted to draw rainbows on your body with my lips.
But I never called you by name
I called you Butterfly.
I called you daydream.
Soft skin.
I called you future.
I called you Sunday.
So bright that you make my freckles darken
And I think that you gave me a sunburn;
Either that or you’re making me blush.

I think I have a sensitive tongue, 
Because I do not like mint or pop or bitter words,
But I want to tell you that I want to taste your palms, 
And to kiss your tattoos and wonder,
If they are what make you more delicious,
Or if it is just you that I’m hungry for.
Or if everything tastes better when I’m starving.

I picture covering my hands in art and touching your face,
Because it feels almost disrespectful to touch you with anything less than beautiful,
Sacred hands.
I told you I had butterflies in my stomach and you told me to digest them,
Because you are nothing for me to be afraid of.
My knight in a shining beanie.

So recently I’ve been making lullabies out of the sirens
But there’s this thing I never told you–
You see,
The butterflies gave me indigestion and now they are coming up, 
Flying up and out my mouth–
A poem.
You are a poem.
Butterfly.
Butterfly.
Fly.  

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Korinne Ellert is currently a college Junior. She is a poet from Indiana and embarks to write about the grief she has experienced through the loss of her father to suicide in late 2020 and the loss of her mother to a drunk driving accident in mid-2021. On top of her grief poetry, she often writes about mental illness, feminism, significant cultural events, sexuality, and the romantic aspects of being alive.