Corkboard Graveyard

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



This poem is about: 


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