Butterfly/ Dreams of...

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   There are two versions of you. The first, you are delicate, sweet, harmless. That is how they view you. That is how I used to view you. You are as beautiful and angelic as your wings. The bright side of my life radiated from you.

   The second is vicious, dark, painful. That is who you are. You slowly broke my heart, one small crack at a time until all that remains are pieces of what once was.

They say butterflies are sweet, beautiful creatures. And they are, in the summer. Summer butterflies radiate warmth and glow similar to the sun. But like the trees, butterflies lose their beauty in the coldest months.

I have many butterflies, just as I have many you's.

My first butterfly was perfect in the summer, and everything couldn't have been better. But the winter stripped him of his wings, and he had traits similar to the second kind of butterfly without them. We argued daily, he was saying things he didn't mean and I could not help but do the same. We were explosive, some nights I wonder if I am a butterfly too.

~
One night, it was particularly bad night for us, and I fell asleep while saying something particularly angry. I wake up in a field. This was the same exact field we went to for our first "date," so I felt the familiarity of the same winds, dim sun, cloudy skies, and soft grass beneath my feet. Flowers littered the ground like sprinkles on a donut.

It was perfect. But something was off. All I heard was the wind and a voice, barely a whisper, telling me to look to the left of me. It was a small, wooden table. On top of it, a revolver. I knew what the voice was telling me to do, and in my mind, I felt it to be right. It didn't make sense for it to not be right, and he was there, in front of me, smiling like he used to.

He was perfect. And I picked up the lousy piece of metal, put the bullet in, and aimed. Without hesitation, I pulled the trigger.

Time was like stop motion. I saw and heard everything. The expressions on his face, the slow bang of the run and the whir of the bullet in the air as it slowly hurdles at his forehead. I saw the blood ooze out, the shock and pain my butterfly felt when he took a bullet from the person who could never hurt him. I killed the butterfly I promised not to even hurt, and he fell into the grass quickly, as if time sped up to compensate for the slowing down.
~

I wake up. 3:36 am and he sent me a ton more angry texts for falling asleep.  We didn't talk for a while, and sometimes I see a scar on his face still, where the bullet went in.

The second butterfly I have already discussed in my poetry book, but I wanted to go a little more in-depth about it. The second kind of butterfly is laced with venom. They are the ones that you never see coming, that have blinded you so bad that you can't even see that you are in a situation.

You don't want to believe your friends, family, therapists, anyone. Because you believe in the first kind of butterfly. You believe in him/her/them. I believed in the first kind of butterfly for too long.

Because now I don't believe in anything. Love is hell, commitment is too terrifying. If I could kill my butterfly in a dream that easily, I'm sure that I could hurt anyone in my reality just as easily, if not easier.

No.

Written: December 26, 2018
Finished: December 27, 2018
~butterflies in my universe of dreams and reality

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