A butterfly,
deceitful
and made of lies
targeted her one day
she was sitting atop an anthill
scratching bite marks
ignorant to her impending doom
and saw the gracefully delicate
dove,
flutter its painted wings as it landed
innocently
on the tip of her finger
She did not feel the daggers
prodding gently into her flesh
or the blood relinquishing itself from her
veins
She did not feel her colour draining,
or her lids closing,
or her eyes rolling
or her life slipping
And when it was finally lost,
she did not feel her legs give out
stiff, cold and ashy
as she fell to the poisoned blades of the
moor
the grass that was briefly popping with safety and elation
and, that alien ideology known to her...
life...
The butterfly
as innocent as before
left her finger and stepped into the grass
It licked,
and feast
and dug
and drilled
and drunk
and ate.
And when the butterfly was finished,
it saw in a distant heart
a girl standing atop a hill
the sun smiling proudly upon her
the bees blushing
the foxes peaking their heads out of their hiding
the birds stopping their chatter for a breath
the wolves becoming mellow and the
owls peeking open an eye
and it flew.
It too, would take a peek outside its hiding once again.
**from futre:
this entire poem was just me ranting abt why i hate butterflies, lmao
YOU ARE READING
Intrusive Fragility
PoezjaBecause we are fragile. ✂✂✂✂✂ I wrote these poems when i was like 12/13 lmaooo i unpublished this, but decided to put it back up because why not. so, here my emo poet phase is immortalized for the world to see :] -- Updates at random. #Wattys
