It is true. I used to catch
nondescript moths in plastic
bags & wait for them to die
from concussions. Conscious.
What happens when a palm hits
a bubble? It bursts. Dust. That's
what coats the tips
of my fingers when I press
them tight, sweat chaffing
at grey wings. Yesterday, a black
butterfly flew into the iris
of my periphery, and I felt a lightness
in my step. Air expands.
Yes, I used to enjoy
taunting captive moths. I'd dizzy
their capsules & watch them catapult
into stale space. I was cruel. It is not
necessary to torment the tortured.
Hindsight makes you less
guilty but you cannot escape
the fluttering. Dead wings learn
to flap long after the breath leaves
the body. I know it was wrong
to kill. Forgive me.