Like a Butterfly

i.
I would try to write only the things
that are changing in this season of movements
and winds. I would try to write
how it is always gray in my room, no matter
if the sun shines elsewhere. In this not-dawn,
I slip to the bottom edge of the bed, trying not to creek
out onto the floor because you are curled, hunchback
in this matchbox of a room. Luckily,
you do not complain and I leave you behind
to start my day. This is strange for me
because I did not imagine myself a butterfly.

ii.
My father grows older and wider,
and I simply grow. I cannot explain
how strange it is to watch him grow winded.
I thought growing meant positive differences
but he grows cancerous and closer
to the grave. It is not depressing, just factual
and I do not know why people look at me
with melancholy eyes when I remark as such.

iii.
It used to be strange to watch people fucking
on television or the movies. Mostly, I felt awkward
because wouldn't everyone rather be reading?
Now, I feel empowered to watch a woman
curl shrimp-like next to a man, knowing what
will come next. He hovers over her like a net,
waiting to catch all of her.