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LEPIDOPTEROPHOBIA

by Lynden Rook

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1.
do you remember when i first fell for you? do you remember that whole day at the museum? do you remember when we sat on the bench by my house? do you remember when we shared each other’s fears? you’re scared of butterflies- i’m scared of them too. i get them all of the time when i look at you. did you forget me when it all fell apart? did you forget the good to also lose the bad? my wings are stained and splotched with marks, and many dots, imperfect spots. i pin them down inside a dream journal to stop my flight, cause i know you’re scared of butterflies. you’re scared of butterflies- i’m scared of them too.
2.
i feel like i’m writing out a thinkpiece in my drafts to talk to you. not again, oh no. i got an overthinking mind and an overracing heart cause i’m 112% certain i’m in love. overcommit my heart to you. disappoint myself again, oh no. will it ever feel alright to unveil my bandaged eyes? i can’t afford another gaze if it isn’t the truest love. can you make this easier for me? you’re driving me up the walls in the best possible way. and i hate that you’ll prolly never ever know it, cause i’m terrified to show that you’re on my bucket list. i’m gonna give myself a break. gonna look the other way when my hands begin to inevitably shake with the fear of where I know I am. too close for comfort, too incapable of sticking to the plan.
3.
you sure showed me a lot of good tunes on that secret spotify playlist. we sure had a grand ol’ ball, didn’t we? dancing around our feelings. you’re a ballerina by trade, a scholar of the tip toe. you could sneak into the hardest of hearts, and leave with whatever spoils you’d want. our song overplayed in a couple of months. melodies often overstay in the attic of our minds, but i can’t seem to get rid of the sweetest one inside of my brain- it’s you, my favorite wind-up box. throwing frisbee on the weekend at the briscoe park ‘til eleven o’ clock. local news on the TV- NASDAQ crashed, all we can do is laugh. i went off the deep end, but you reeled me in like a mackerel. you was dolled up on the webcam, now i’m fiending for those macbook calls. blowing doja in saratoga. wanted sara may, but couldn’t handle that. i’ll drive corolla to nova scotia. deagle in my jeans, all packed and strapped. we were on point, had a habitat. your eyes bluer than a new cadillac inside of my brain. i’m getting crucified on the 35. you’re right next to me, but you’re the next to leave me. nothing ever happens for me. that’s okay, i’m used to it. nothing ever happens round here. that’s okay, i’m used to it. pull out the blender, been using it more. massaging your smooth skin has felt like a chore. i made you some breakfast eat up while it’s warm. collapse on the bed as you slam the front door. i’m on all fours, go get your camcord. i’ll still be there for you even as your scapehorse. ego camouflaged forest for the mirage. put my best face on and dive straight into the trauma cause i’m scared of change, but i’m used to it anyway.
4.
seventy-three freckles on the left side of your face. i wish one of them was me. twenty-three, living in the backseat of a car always on its way through spring. i pray for rain, i pray for sleep, but something eats away at me. and i can’t deny, you mean the world to me, but right now i need to learn to breathe. and i can’t lie, you taught me how to see that there’s more colors in the world than green. you’d be proud of me, i built half my house on rock instead of leaves. leaves, on rock instead of leaves. bittersweet, sent an invite you’ll never see now that i’m clean of all the dreams where you would dance with me. i’d love to see you at the party next to me, to celebrate how i became the person you believed i’d be.
5.
you’re the general manager of a retail store in a mid 2000s romcom. had you always dreamed of this job? a girl next door, who drove many more just to wipe the slate clean of all your shitty ex-boyfriends. okay, so you were raised catholic. you don’t believe in it too much, but it’s nice to think there’s something after death. “sorry, afterlife”, you say as you nervously chuckle over hot wings. you apologize for being too morbid. i reassure you and say, “it’s okay to feel out of place, i probably think the same at least three times a day”. as i hustle and bustle, and then write, sing and play, eat, drink, sleep, and repeat it all again, i can’t seem to lose the feeling that none of this has any meaning. cause there’ll be nothing left of our bodies when they excavate this small town, and all we’ll be is nostalgia, my sweet little mid 2000s romcom. i miss watching you paruse inside of blockbuster, and now every dvd i owned lost its luster. gave each other scratches, now we’ll never know how our movie ends. too preoccupied and paranoid about how we end up dead. cause there’ll be nothing left of our bodies when they excavate this small town. and there’ll be nothing left of our sorries as the space debris comes crashing down. and there’ll be nothing left but silence as the vacuum sucks away all sound. and all the thoughts i had of you turn to atoms, dissipate as fast. all the memories we shared vaporize, and the vapor shatters like glass. all the time we spent together implodes itself and then just cuts to black, and all we’ll be is nostalgia, my sweet little mid 2000s romcom.
6.
i'm getting sick of learning lessons. i'll be here sitting on the floor. i wear my slippers out to breakfast- it doesn't matter anymore. when you get sick and then regret things i can fix it, come and find me. when i can't think i just forget things, but here there's always something to remind me. our song overplayed in a couple of months. melodies often overstay in the attic of our minds, but i can’t seem to get rid of the sweetest one inside of my brain- it’s you, my favorite wind-up box. we walk on opposite sides of the street claiming our own pavement. never surrendered to the idea that you may become different or complacent. and now all i have is pieces of you left out to dry in my own mind. a windup box i can never see. nothing ever happens for me. that’s okay, i’m used to it. nothing ever happens round here. that’s okay, i’m used to it. waiting, i’m waiting patiently to love again. stay and unravel the string i’m tied up in. all i want is to let go.

about

a labor of love documenting my metamorphosis :3

credits

released November 6, 2020

all music written and produced by lynden rook

additional writing credits:
8485 on 112%
damien cane & baxter brooks on wind up box
king yosef, kitty, & soren bryce on wind up box (king yosef remix)

additional production credits:
craig edgar on mid 2000s romcom
king yosef & soren bryce on wind up box (king yosef remix)

artwork: @vengodelvalle on instagram

layout & product designs: jason lionel frazier & moth tracy

special thanks to pretty wavvy for being kind enough to believe in me and helping me to release this wonderful project, and to casey and camille for always supporting me and helping me with so much of the video content this project cycle :'))

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Lynden Rook Houston, Texas

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