kinds of butterflies
It all comes down to butterflies, in the end.
I'm starting to wonder if there was ever a time when I felt like this, and it scares me to think that there wasn't. I've never liked or loved or been involved with someone without it being, in some way, a torment. If I had butterflies before this, they were steel butterflies, heavy with stainless razor edges that scraped against my insides. They were butterflies that beat slow slow wings that drew blood with each weighted movement. It wasn't a feeling that made me happy, but it made me feel alive and I guess at the time I thought it was the same thing. But when I'm with her, or texting her, or just talking in general, I'm so happy it feels like a high. Like there are a million tiny cabbage whites fluttering around in my insides and beating their gossamer wings like eyelashes.
Please let these butterflies live, and for once to grow and change without dying to rest on the acidic walls of my stomach.