ButterfliesSometimes I still see you as rain-scented innocenceMore Like This
With a morbid fascination for dead butterflies.
Now you like to dye your hair the colour of their wings,
All the shades of teenage rebellion.
You seduce leather studded danger with
Smudged kohl and a touch of cold indifference.
When they leave you with bruises and broken mirrors,
You blame the heavens and the misaligned stars.
I never understood
Why you scream anger from the rooftops,
Or why you keep gossamer swallowtails in a glass jar.
Do you still squeeze their stained glass wings
Between times new roman pages
Like you did when you weren’t afraid to be happy?
Where the World BurnsWhere the World BurnsMore Like This
“Mom was acting so weird. It’s like she was never going to see me again,” Scarlett said, looking at the box in her hands. “She gave me this, though. Said it's from Dad. She never talks about him.”
“It’s definitely weird, Scar,” Jaycee said as she turned into the club parking lot. She killed the engine and turned to Scarlett. “You can talk to her about it tomorrow. For now, let’s meet Mattie and dance with some hot guys.”
Scarlett continued to stare at the box until Jaycee snatched snatched it and turned it over. It was wrapped in some ancient dried palm leaf. "Did your dad come from Hawaii or something?"
"Don't know," Scarlett said. "Mom wouldn’t even tell me that."
"What's Skeima?" Jaycee said, reading the name scrawled on the top.
"That's my real name," Scarlett said. "Don't know why mom picked it. She told me it means beautiful." Jaycee