She cannot be killed with chemicals...for years we have tried yet she lives on, stronger this year, than the years before.
She loathes my happiness, despises any self control.
should she discover a hint of either one, she gobbles them up and becomes more volatile by spitting them back out upon the world as anger, pain, sadness, hopelessness, hate, fear and paranoia.
Defeated, I recoil into myself, begging for someone to destroy her.
She is no ordinary, delicate, colorful butterfly.
Not like the beautiful ones living within children, tickling their fat,
little tummies, causing them to giggle with delight.
My butterfly is black, wrought iron with razor sharp wings.
She cannot...will not be broken...
until...
I finally am.
