When your not looking I pick their dainty wings off the ground and carefully stitch them together. Collecting. Saving. Coddling them and nursing them back to what they once were. You must have entomophobia. And I must be the butterfly. They still try to fly. They still try to stir around but I won't let them. They don't know. And I won't remind them again that the jar they must endure is only 12cm tall 8.5cm around. Even though it may be shattered, splintered, broken. It still beats. It's still good. It's still full. And hopefully one day you will flutter fully again. Without the fear of breaking. Without the fear of falling.
-H
YOU ARE READING
Through my eyes
PoetryThrough my eyes is a short poem collection about obsessive love and obsession and riding the wave of falling in love and falling out of love. Even if it's not returned.
