I know you're upset at me,
I know it plagued you,
Haunted you,
With a poltergeist of an old feeling.
I know yesterday was meant to be for you, but you don't know what it does to me.
I don't want you to know, either.
But I'll tell you anyway.
It hurts.
Not in the way you think, though,
More in that it aches with a burn and a flutter of a single butterfly's wings, and I
Capture it and I
Take it apart.
Piece by piece I disassemble it, careful not to tear it's beautiful wings as I look at that feeling with an analytical eye, refusing to let its fluttering effect me.
And piece by piece I take it apart, taking notes in my mind as I pin it to a board apart from me.
I scorn every part of it, scour it for flaws and reason with myself why I must do this, why I must, and have no other choice.
And when I'm done, it's beautiful in its pieces, and I hang it up on the wall,
With the hundreds of others.
Lepidopterophobia.
I fear these things I pin amongst my wall, despite their bright and beautiful colors, for lying underneath their wings is havoc.
For as they grow and spill from their cocoons within my stomach, if I do not catch them and pin them far from me,
They will bubble up my throat and fill my blood, my tissues, my muscles, and I will not be able to glance at them with the eye of an analyst.
They will take control of me, for it is in the nature of my underdeveloped frontal lobe, and
A beat of a butterflies wings will end me, destroy me and everything I have.
But what's terrible about these things,
Worse than what they are,
Worse than what they could do,
Is their beauty.
For it is because of this that I pin them up where I can see them,
For it is because of this that I could never, never crumple their wings or burn their corpses.
For it is because of this that I can not bear to be without them or hide their beauty from my private eyes.
But the thing about fears, and what I fear most, is what makes me
Aphobophobic.
For it is through my eyes,
Each and every day,
That these carefully dissected creatures,
Scare me less and less.
YOU ARE READING
Air Conditioning
PoetryVent poetry It's frowned upon putting your heart on your sleeve with such a weak code like a three number pin. For both of our sakes I hope you aren't the type to spend your time digging your claws in and working to decode someone else's words an...
