"Crutch" - a poem

Crutch                                                                                                                                                             

The butterflies in my stomach are

Shy yet vivid things

And when they first saw you

They peeled open their wings.

My stomach is a small space

But they manage to fly high

When on some chance morning

You smile, wave, walk by.

It is absolutely sickening

My hot, feverish blushing:

It's a symptom of the butterflies,

Their tiny heart-beats rushing.

Some times it gets so bad

I double over, nauseous.

The butterflies saw you get nervous,

Saw you regard me with something cautious.

There is a butterfly named

For every boy for whom I've had a crutch:

-a winged-turmoil in my belly

-a hope that hands might touch.