Butterflies

Sometimes it feels
Like a thorn is being
Pushed slowly into
My chest,
A sharp stab of memory
With every breath,
A slow tearing of my wings,
Clipped, flightless,
I'm pinned and displayed
For the world;
A rare specimen.
And I've always got
A dull empty ache
In my stomach
Where the butterflies
Used to live,
Now cocooned, waiting,
Somewhere between
Love and death,
Just like me,
Just like me.