You say

 

That you love butterflies

 

Yet I find you pinning them to a cork board graveyard

 

Good thing

 

I am a moth

 

You say 

 

That I was never enough for you

 

You spend hours dissecting me

 

Poking and prodding my wings, trying to "perfect" me until I fit your mold

 

You rearrange my spectrum of colors until I am unable to recognize the palette

 

And then you attempt to stick in the pin

 

And yet I find

 

That my heart still beats

 

That my wings still spread 

 

That I am not a part of your cork board graveyard 

 

That I can still fly

 

You say that you love butterflies

 

But I have found people that care less about the colors in my wings

 

And more about the flutter behind them

 

And the feeling of moths in their hearts

 

When they enters the garden grounds

 

They describe my being as a masterpiece, rather than as a collection of smudged mistakes

 

I am not a butterfly, I am a moth

 

And being so is enough for me