He says don’t mind the cicadas’ whispers, don’t listen
to their hushed velvety wings dripping syrupy night
over the valley, and don’t mind the waffles they’ll serve
you in the cafe. He says don’t mind the staff and they won’t
mind you, says don’t start picking at a loose thread until
you have something in you that you’d like to start unraveling.
He says don’t you unwind yourself like that, says it’s lazy,
says you’re better than that, wasting your own time waiting,
trying to figure yourself out just to stitch you back together again.
He says don’t fear the things you see, says surviving is about
looking deep, says you can’t fill a fishbowl without skimming
beneath the surface of a rib cage. He says don’t tap the glass or
you’ll scare them, says he ain’t going nowhere though, says
nothing really scares him, not anymore.
AMBRIELLE BUTLER is a writer and poet from Texas. Her poetry can be found in publications like On the Seawall, Superstition Review, Valley Voices, Plainsongs and others. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @ajbutlerwriting.