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The life of a mind controlled sex slave (a little early for the season)(by Sheri Grutz)

  1. The sun

The butterfly pressing its wings
open and closed has put more
breath in the hour, has saved

without lips what we couldn’t
get close to, a summer day,
floating from the pain. This

was me free and also captured
in that glass moment, needing
more air, needing that sky.

The clouds sink into each other
on blue beds that creak with a
little thunder. This was me

holding light and dreaming of
home, never landing on a safe
hand.

  1. Up

The butterfly eases by, the
beautiful pulling away with its
markings that they left like

a kiss mark on a neck. This was
me when the pain was heavy
enough to not blow away,

breathing life back into the dead
air. The eye lids flutter naked as
the wings, tracing with a finger

the loops of the flight, where you
must imagine a scissors cutting
one single string, cutting and

cutting, and de-programming,
short, short, long, a million
different pieces go together again.

  1. Waterway

The sex is a driving force through
the sails of these poems that never
go very far away, wind-swept fears

that spin out of control, wrecking
one’s faith, over-turning one’s
creativity like an upset stomach.

This was me fluttering on the
surface and hiding in the tender
reeds, the silent sound screaming

before my own. The butterfly
dances, don’t you know, and
lights up for you with the garden

spark flickering in its lazy day.
There is never a place like home,
the bed that breaks the silence.

  1. Humdrum

The butterfly landing on the
shoulders of giants is less than
a drop of rain in the bucket

that no one can lift. The heavy
pain has words written on it for
someone’s use, the chore of this

day that goes clear as breath
they’ve wasted on me. This
was me putting it back with

the frenzy of wings and eyes
startling the bored, lingering
and getting so close to death,

pinned down just like a picture
perfect day, where the children
play, and the mind turns its page

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