Butterfly

In English class we had to create a persona poem and then perform it. This was mine.

I began in my cocoon, beside many others.
My mother was naïve, a hopeless romantic at heart.
My father, filled with anxiety.
Someday, I can do nothing but hope that I will get to touch the giant bits of cotton candy that float in the perfect blue sea.
I will stop being fearful of these dark walls, and instead remember that I once made you feel the happiest you ever were that night web he dropped you off at your house and walked you to the door.
The first time anyone's lips ever brushed against yours.
The first time anyone ever looked at you with such a bonfire so large in their eyes.
But, there were times where I nearly drowned in your resentful ness rather than your euphoria.
Combing through all the sweet words tangled in your salty, damp hair, I dance.
Anxiety moves with us, making a conga line up your throat.
The bass shaking us,
Your blood rushing through you like your car rushed to your hometown to see your grandmother before her chest no longer rose,
Your hands were shaking just like the night he left you.
“How could this possibly happen again?” your cry echoed.
You swallowed, washing our party back down,
And your pulse slowed down just like your car did when you found out your chest no longer rose,
And you just
Breathed.
I fell back into my home, the second brain of the body, settling, after another day of our love-hate relationship.
I, I am the result of epinephrine or adrenaline being released, pulling away blood from the stomach and sending it to the muscles.
But to you, I am nothing more than butterflies in your stomach.
And one day, just like you did last Saturday, you will miss me filling your stomach, as nothing makes you feel more alive than I do.