The Butterfly Cycle

 

A larva growing rapidly,
A butterfly to become
Flying free, propelling air.
Those fair, innocent wings that I shall soon wear
When I am to be wed to the moonlight, the honey
And the nectar of the flowers.
A dream so fragile, I must not err.

I hid it.
I hid it all.
My growth is hampered by fear
Unleashing those wings would disturb my man,
Here he rests; obsessing over video games
And humans’ lifespans.
I must always shrink for him to tolerate
My wisp of hair—and the mediocre life
Inside the cracked pictures’ frames.

Love is a season in between,
It will eat you up, even if you didn’t
Allow its rainy gales to be seen.
Honey, haven’t you yet learned that only the rain
Will render the plants with intense green?

I have suffered the cruelty of his changing moods
Flat and hidden,
I cannot move without dislodging the weight of a decade
Of a love-forbidden,
Of a man who lived and died
In me—lonely, unreal and forgiven.

I falter,
A lonely butterfly facing gusts.
It hurts to become,
But when the air pushes under those wings,
May there be nothing left but a handful of dust.

Now I could only fancy the thought of him:
Running through the roads,
Escaping the weights of reality, foolishly happy, not
Including me.

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