The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

My brain won’t sleep
It paces, barefoot and bleeding,
down hallways of maybe
through doors marked, remember

I asked it to be quiet,
but it made noise in new languages.
Logic, they call it. Impulse in drag.
It spins too fast to ask permission.

I want to love the part of me
That never needs evidence.
Just feeling. the whole flood,
not the broken faucet drip of reason.

They say to think things through—
But when I do, I become
a math problem with no solution.
Do they think, too?
Or do they breathe better?

Ms. Butterfly Genesis