They Say

June is the month for fireflies,
The little things that dance
beneath the palm trees
that line the edge 
of your brain,
swaying and blinking and fucking. 
And you stand there
telling yourself you'll remember this
always
as the moment you fell apart.
Came to realize that, maybe,
none of it was meant for you.


After all, they don't owe you anything. 


You step closer to the edge
and open wide your mouth,
hoping, praying
that one of them will blindly enter,
take comfort in her impending death
and from within you
release all the light
she could no longer carry
and that she wished to give you.
Some fundamental torch.


So much light
that you are temporarily blinded
watching as shadows of your insides
are cast down upon
the dirty rocks at your feet.
Your heart, lungs, ribs, intestines
all on warped display.
Illuminated in a final attempt
by some dying thing
whose finest moment - 
to sway and blink and fuck - 
could never compare to all that
you have yet to do.


June, they say, is the month
for fireflies. 
And when you are
to take hold of the
palm trees of your brains, 
climb them,
and look out among the 

empty, grey space


you were meant to cultivate,
so they may return to those fields


and sway
and blink
and fuck


and stay as brief reminders
that they don't owe you

anything

which you don't owe yourself.