• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 04
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On Comparing Myself to a Butterfly

In flight,
you are not what you seem.
you are never more honest
than in landing,
which may be why
you do it so seldomly,
why you seem to fear
the solidity of the ground beneath
your ever-so delicate, yet clumsy, feet.

Or, perhaps it is capture,
submission, and subjugation your heart fears -
the resulting lack of options
and of freedom
too appalling to contemplate.
Perhaps it all
just takes you back
to those dark and dreary days
when that was the case.

Or, maybe it’s just instinct -
pure and animalistic -
that keeps you flitting about,
as opposed to putting down roots,
like the other, planted people on whom
you begrudgingly depend.


On Comparing Myself to a Butterfly

Whatever the reasons,
you don’t really care,
so long as you are airborne,
drifting with the breeze . . .
or even fighting against it.

Could you need the pain
that comes from all that constant movement?
From all that speeding, racing, flitting about?
Possibly to release
all that anxious, pent-up energy -
all that anger,
all that hate
seeded so incredibly deeply
so damn long ago?

Whatever your reasons,
be they noble,
be they petty,
be they reasonable,
or simply outrageous,
you seem to be unhealthily determined
to keep flapping
and flying
‘til you fall out of the sky.