An
angry swarm of butterflies swirls in the pit
of my
stomach. I can feel them making their way up
into
my lungs, their gentle wings making precise
paper
cuts inside me—
all
over—
every
second.
Sometimes
I get lonely and I whisper to them.
Oh little butterflies, what have
I done?
But
they just cling to my heart,
which
beats furiously,
unable
to shake them off.
Sometimes
they drive me crazy and
I
want to cry and drown them.
I
want the salt of my tears
to dry
their wings until they are crippled and broken
and
dead. I want to scream so shrilly that I scare them
out
of my body.
I
want these stupid, beautiful things
to
just get the fuck out of me, away from me, forever—
Oh you bullshit butterflies,
I’ll miss you when you’re dead.
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