Wicked Lies and Butterflies Various colors drip off the television, painting my living room walls disgusting tints of what has been and what should never be. Mother remains stretched out across the couch, mumbling words of riddle that never made sense to either of us. I breathe into a jar and place it in her left palm, the only hand that doesn't have dying quotes and last lines of songs all written upon it. She opens the jar and slowly inhales all of the oxygen. Her life support. She then throws the glass container at the wall behind her and the shards all stick into the cheap wood. The wall bleeds blue and theWicked Lies and Butterflies
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