Butterfly

Who ever heard of the butterfly,
Born purely and très naïve,
(And patterned wings so rare to come by!)
Curling back up, into the insipid brown chrysalis to die?
Never.
So…

Why do we become, that which we most hate?

Because we understand the pain, that is to desecrate.

My wings had felt the delectable breeze in every morning sky,

Until one day they shook with the weight of a thousand fractured lies.

And now I lay a crumpled thing, on a dirty floor,

With my own voice in my head,

Sadist, sicko, whore.