Drowning your butterflies

I am drowning the butterflies you gave me in alcohol,
but the bastards have nine lives and good God they are hot as rabbits.

They scream your name in an insatiable orgy.
My pretentious aloof,
and snobbish gulps of cheap brandy fazes their hunger not.
I’d ask them to stop but you made the brats an entitled lot.

I am at war with my insides.
They have let these darn bugs into my home.
My heart bleeds from the holes they have made, and my ears are pierced at every mention of your name.

You don’t see it because the layers of talcum won’t let you.
But I won’t chisel out this paste masking the scars that make my face.
For they might tell you that I haven’t had enough sleep because you still live in my dreams.
They might tell you that I haven’t had a bath in days because the scent of our last encounter lingers still.
And maybe,
maybe I’m still fighting to give that memory a better name.
Because ”last encounter” does not do the whirlwind you came in justice.

And I won’t wipe the bloody grease on the pout you once called home.
Lest my lips curve upside down to these bugs’ satisfaction. 
I refuse to unhook the gold rings that adorn this dying vessel.

Because a woman needs her gold and diamonds when the pearls in her eyes keep drowning in tears.

I am drowning the butterflies you gave me in alcohol
my insides are rotting, and my outside betrays me.
But I can’t stop until these bugs breath their last.