Emily

the first time Emily ever wanted,
it was a creamy white shirt covered in
butterflies.
her eyes slid down and next,
she wanted a pair of
jeans
so tight they wouldn’t wrinkle.
words felt flat on her tongue, covered
in some foreign language, stained bright pink,
over-salted. yes, the second time
she ever wanted.
Emily left home that year,
said she couldn’t bear it anymore
said her clothes were so tight she couldn’t
breathe.
she searched the city for

something.
she happened to wander into a park one
misty morning,
and sat on the dewy grass
which made the seat of her dark dress soggy
the sun
came out eventually,
dried her dress and her skin
and a butterfly with paper wings sat gently
on her wrist. its wings
were the color of milk.
its legs felt like sentences.
the third time Emily ever wanted,
it was those wings to carry her
home.