butterfly blues

https://pin.it/4l3Ak5vwz

It ended the way fog lifts — suddenly, without ceremony.

No thunder. No rain. Just a sentence dropped like a coin into a wishing well that stopped granting.

I didn’t fall apart. Not right away.

I closed the door quietly, as if to say — If I don’t slam it, maybe it won’t echo.

But silence has its kind of scream.

Later, I cried six hours of collapse.

Not the crying that rinses you clean. Not the movie kind. No soft piano under my wreckage.

Just the slow suffocation of someone who forgot how to scream.

Tears like fire under the skin. Crying like paper burns — soft at first, then gone all at once.

Grief pressed its hands to my throat like a ghost I didn’t know I had let in. It stayed. It always stays. It just learns new disguises.

Now it lives in my coat pocket — small, sharp, familiar.

And still, I hear it:

“Maybe in another life, I didn’t have to break myself into silence just to be loved.”

That line spins in the back of my mind like a child’s music box left open too long — a lullaby meant to hush me while the carving began.

You didn’t want a woman. You wanted a whisper.

A quiet shape, pleasant and contained.

You loved my wingbeat when they were folded.

Every time I opened them — too wide, too blue, too real — you looked away. I called it too much.

So, I made myself small.

A butterfly in a bell jar. Breathing fog on glass. Wings hitting walls in polite ruin.

I paid for love in silences. In softened edges. In disappearing bit by bit.

And even then — I was never honestly held. Only managed. Only muted.

Gracie was right: ***“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’m enough.”*** But I won’t repeat it.

Because I was. I am.

You couldn’t see it — not through the cage of your comfort.

I think of us as butterflies from different afterlives.

I flew in bruised blues — not broken, just battered and burning.

You wanted grayscale. You wanted quiet skies.

So, I clipped myself until I resembled your version of peace.

But I wasn’t made for stillness. I wasn’t born to shrink.

Maybe in another life, someone calls the storm in me holy.

Maybe in that life, I don’t have to bleed to be held.

Tonight, beneath butterfly blue skies, I cry —

not for you, but for her.

The girl who thought collapse was the price of love.

She deserved fire. She deserved flight.

So, I am writing this as resurrection.

Not to remember you. But to remember me.

The ghost of the girl with wings too wide for a cage.

And this time —

she won’t fold them for anyone.