new wooden door.

miasmal hands

of his body unwhole,

broken by loose women

and playful girls.

i have never touched

though he touched me,

pinned above,

the doorframe shuddered,

showing deference to his weight

creaks and whispers

some useless protest

a tree in the forest falls,

i heard its broken sound,

i saw him saw it down,

but you were not there,

so it made no noise.

dead butterflies

pinned through their heads

having lost the war they lie

sleeping on hollow wood below

peacefully nailed to their beds

then, he shouts

then, he looks

into the soundless mouth opened

a broken lock rests
the doorframe whines

miasmal hands, nailing

my butterfly on
the wooden door.
you were not there.

the tree did not fall.