looks

a.
i dissect butterfly wings and place
the stained-glass shards of beauty
lifted from their corpses under my
plastic-wrap flesh, in some sad, sweet
hope that  i can become as beautiful as
the bugs that you were compelled to
destroy because of their obstinate splendor.

b.
i take mascara and eyeliner
to my face and try to draw on
some pretty or perfect emotion, but
i end up looking like a clown, which
is sort of really funny because of
how numb and sorrowful i have become
just to become appealing to you.

c.
i take the mutilated face of a shaving
razor to my skin and hack out the
splinters of butterfly beauty because
you cannot stand the sight of the scars
that i left implanting the broken wings.
(don’t you know that i would do anything,
anything, anything for you? don’t you care?)

x.
i pluck off all of your eyelashes
like a lover pulling daisy petals
in the sunset-splashed afternoon,
and i peel away your flesh like a
native stripping away the bitter
skin of an exotic fruit,
just so maybe i might not love you
quite so hopelessly. maybe without
your looks, it might be a little easier to
l e t  g o .