ashes.

I live in self imposed aesthetics
mainly because
the dry flutter
of mundane life
would burn me
to ashes.
daily queries
of what if I had this man as a lover
instead of him
daily laughs
at how mostly
I will never unravel doors
to give off
love.
walking hallways of school
I am both frightened and repeld
people rise with ease
wake to greet
laugh along
I am stifled.
I dare not fathom most of you
in your plastered clothing and smiles
and thoughts
built to replicate one another
then complement
one another
on an excellent replication.
what if my arabic teacher
who is a woman
in full bloom
paints on make up
that almost hugs the counters of her face
embraces other woman
as if their pheromones merg kindly into each other.
the way she stands
in simultaneous
softness
and colonizing strength
what if she is accurate
in her dead sounding lines
of to be a women:
she say whilst melancholy drowns her vocal cords.
as if she unravels a helpless secret of life
with an internal tilt.
is to be a butterfly
perceived as this
its wings
are its sources of beauty
when in truth
butterflies run
to morph into corners
watching its wings
turn to ashes.
what if I am ashes
in the way I build my self for a great adventure of a day
that is beauty in a butterfly's wings
full of food and lovers and poetry
and I would flicker
tell I would turn
to all the more
ashes.