This Kid

Teeth out.
Half moon ribbed peach lips parted.
Crystal cracked corners at the creased angles of eyes
in lines that still go away afterward.
Not for long. Yet still, for now.
Kids smile. Just don’t know why.
Which is probably how.

And how it spreads like secrets.
Gets shared around by people.
When we see innocence still capable of feeling. Authentic.
In a world of grown up actors. Dollar sign directors.
Producers who never gripped a plow. Applause.
And faked up emotions to match the other audience members.

Then this kid. At this age. Insistent. On his stage.
Doesn’t care if we sold a single ticket.

This is his play.

Butterflies aren’t born butterflies

Being young feels like hunger.
People look at you like an invasive pest.
Until about twenty five.

When you protrude from that self absorbed,
emotionally dense cocoon, and for once,
people can stand the look of you.

Some of them may even smile,
spending entire lives in denial,
they ever put pesticide on butterflies.