Death of the butterflies

-jiraniku, 2006

I look at you and I feel anxious

When you look at me,

I feel queasy and nauseous

When you talk to me,

I feel even more sick to my stomach

And when I talk back.

I’m scared that I might hurl

Like everything I have kept bottled inside of me

might just end up as word-vomit

Too petrified to make a mess of myself in front of you

lest you think of me as a bumbling idiot

And too proud to clean up after my own jumble of words

Or maybe it’s just the butterflies in my stomach

doing flipflops and sommersaults, everytime you’re near

Upsetting the delicate balance of my less than iron stomach

You came to me again, smiling

Looking happy like I’ve never seen you before

(my stomach was all aflutter)

You tell me stories of her

about how she makes you feel

How anxious you are

How the butterflies toss around in your stomach

(and I feel sick really, the butterflies must have all dropped dead right now)

I’m shocked I could still stand and even smile

I wished you luck and hoped you to be happy,

really I do

It’s just for the first time, my stomach felt like lead

and I have a fervent desire to hurl