Ink Was Spilled

The words were my baby butterflies,

The blue jays of the spring blooming in my mind like a sonata

They fluttered across the page, landed in pairs and quintets

Chirruped and sang my own song.

Your red pen like a machine gun pierced the margins

Filled every free space with blood-red ink

Poked holes like battle wounds in the paper you were so eager to pick apart

The way a hyena scrapes the last piece of meat off a dead beautiful creature.

You handed back to me

A garden of bent wings

A sea of blots and splatters

And I straightened it out a little, placed it on the windowsill

And watched it fly away

Over the dirty streets

I hope it lands on a cloud

To rain red pen marks on this city of pride.

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