Butterflies

The first time my wrist bled i was 10

Shards of broken glass

Tears on my bed

Blood on my peers the next day

My best friend saw and showed me hers

It became our special secret

Telling each other the different ways we did it

Distracting ourselves from the pain our brains caused

And we drew butterflies

For every gash

To make it pretty

We laughed while crying

Like nothing was wrong

Like people weren't hurting us

Parents got suspicious so we moved to thighs

Skinny jeans never hurt so much

We listened to our music

Lost our sleep

And contemplated our death

Butterflies all over

To make it pretty

The butterflies are gone now

So are we

The scars aren't

Neither are the acidic voices

Who tells us we deserve to shake hands with Osiris

But who knew butterflies could hurt us so much?

They consumed us

Just to make it pretty

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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