Butterfly

They're all judging me. They think I'm useless and they don't want me here. I can't let them find the real me. They'll all hate who she is. They'll despise her. They'll maim the butterfly.


The sharp point slid slowly over my skin. It took a short while before the flesh gave way and thin lines of blood crept to the surface. The silent stinging was not for the pain but for the feeling. Prior to that moment, I was happy. Happy with being nothing. Content with feeling nothing. Then came the moment where all I wanted was feeling instead of the cool numbness that had then been paralysing me. As the pattern bled into being with every consecutive slice and cut, I smiled... because I felt it.


I've cut out of depression before. I've cut out of addiction before. This felt different. I was not manoeuvring a razor blade across my forearm to watch the blood ooze down my arm as my body collapsed in protest. I was not violently etching names and words into my body with a drawing in the hopes of remembering those who had forgotten me. I didn't cry. I didn't feel as though what I was doing was a result of one person in particular. I was patient and meticulous, rigorous yet gentle through the process. There was little blood... Just the delicate redness surrounding the careful arrangement of soon-to-be scars on top of my tired, swollen skin. 


There are few who understand people like me. There are even less who bother to try. Then there are those who don't have a choice but to try. They don't usually succeed. They asked questions. They judged. They're human in their inquiries of my animal ability to mutilate my own body without a hint of remorse.I couldn't pretend to blame them.


There was the butterfly... carefully carved into the back of my hand- caressing the pulsing veins directly below. Never before had I put so much effort into scarring my body. Never had I been so proud. I stared at the beautiful scar that now resided in my sight. I touched it only to calm the spontaneous stinging that rippled through the crimson edges of its wings. I thought about the motivation for its creation... for I previously had accepted that there was none- until now. 


I closed my eyes as I traced my fingers over the course edges of skin that had been sculpted into wings. I couldn't understand what they were hiding. I let the outside voices slowly pour into my head until I found my mind reeling with the questions and the heated disappointment that had been thrown at me. I began to her myself speak from the catacombs of my twisted mind that no one has yet reached. I opened my eyes. The marks on my hand were still there. I suddenly wanted them never to fade and then, just as suddenly, I wished for them to disappear. I saw, carved in my own flesh and blood,my overwhelming ugliness.


Butterflies are hideous. Their wings hide their faces and deceive all who stand from a distance. Should you get close enough, you find that they are not what you thought and not who you want them to be.


I fear what I've become. A girl lost in a world of blood and self-pity, misery and pain. Although I smile and remain alive on the outside, I'm something different when you look inside. I'm hanging onto life by the edge of the Cross, clutching to a promise for a better eternity. You will no longer love me when you see me. You'll see my ugliness. You'll think of me as twisted... as evil. Why do you think butterflies fly away when humans get closer? They don't want to be seen... Really seen. I don't want you to see me for my pain. I don't want you to know what goes through my mind as a drag a blade through my skin. I don't want you to know that I like it.


I don't let people see her- this girl that I am. This masochistic monster. This twisted demon that I've become.


This Butterfly.






--J.