

Flintridge sacred heart
Young Writer's Society
presents
Verité
2021-2022
the second half, right?
by Anya Millard
Time is cruel
She’s a butterfly flitting through a gossamer mirror
A lumbering creature follows her, pushing helplessly through silvery mercury
A thousand diamond hands pushing back instead of holding on
Going limp instead of pulling closer
The inevitable is here
Reincarnated into the next year, and karma proves deserving
two
push ahead of
one
merge
with the inevitable incoming
two
and leave
one
in their wake
Glimmering pyramids never withstood the weight they were designed to carry
The brush of a butterfly and the facade of the last is merely glass shards on a floor too pristine to be genuine
One two one two three two one two one breathe
A butterfly’s wings decay in the time it takes for me to pin them below glass
What’s sweet is quickly bitter pine
A delicate lie
A thin veneer of photosynthetic gossamer
Maybe the juniper beneath my tongue was meant to echo
in my ears,
the backs of my eyes,
my mouth,
my nose,
my ankle,
my knuckles,
my neck,
my heart
my mind,
“have you seen how I smirk I do it for you when did I last really laugh it feels like years don’t you deserve it what if that’s a lie you’ll never create the narrative you torture yourself for you’re really not that bad you read in too much stop lying stop lying you’re fine you’re fine”
I’ve always dreamed of shaking hands with Saturn and asking for my heart back
Nobody told me a cacophony could be so quiet
Maybe I should have known
After all, Time is cruel and Betty wants to know how long almost sixteen years is