The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

I press my fingers against the veins
where his name used to bloom,
scratching at syllables that cling like ivy—
unwanted, unyielding.

I whisper to my body: exhale.
Let the letters unravel,
let the roots shrivel beneath my skin,
let me breathe without his ghost
settling in my lungs.

No more running.
Just healing.
Just reclamation.
Just air that belongs to me.

Ms. Butterfly Genesis