I have ambled on narrow legs, and knocked on stolid doors
until some warm stranger accepted me into their home
and turned me round, all the better to carve out
my butterfly wings. They remarked:

"Oh, boy, but you are so pretty;
enough to keep around at the least
until your innocence has evaporated with the rising sun.
And we will not turn you out into the night
just yet, but let you sleep among the warmth
of our love so you may know
what it is to be human."

So now I trace scars along my back,
and now I know what it is to be human.
Now I know things.

My brittle wings have all but disintegrated
as I carry them pressed to my chest;
and now I amble on again,
seeking someone to tell me
that I may be made whole again.