ORIGIN: This Brush is a butterfly at heart. Waiting with bated breath for us to paint its wings as the whim takes us.
Nothing sets my heart aflutter these days. The butterfly is still there, but there is a disconnect. My cerebral stars are all present and accounted for, but the anteater seems to have lost interest in them. Where did my devotion go? The wolves have turned their backs on me, and I can’t even cry. I want tears swan-diving off my heart’s edge. But I have been lied to. It’s not a flatline. It’s an endless expanse.
I have a guilty conscience; I am always looking over my shoulder. I can’t escape that butterfly; I know someday a hurricane will come for me. I want to pierce holes in my heart, until it’s as light as a bird skull. I want to howl at the moon, until there isn’t a speck of darkness left in my lungs. But darkness is loyal as a dog, and sooner or later all birds alight.
I came out of my chrysalis. I pumped my wings. All that was left to do was wait for them to dry. But a wolf blocked the sun, and a bird pecked my colors. Do you know what a coup de grâce is? It’s the mercy neither of them showed me. I have nothing to look forward to. I have lost my appetite. The damage is done, wolf’s bane and its avian equivalent won’t do me a world of good. Not even a little corner.
Butterflies are amazing. Tattered wings don’t deter them from flying. But I want to go out with a bang. The blow of an ax. Silvery fish scales flying every which way. My swan song will be an explosion of color. Wolves will howl in awe, and the moon will pale in comparison. My constellation will be pinned up there, it will be the most beautiful insect in the display case.