It was a face.
Two eyes.
A nose.
A mouth.
A person with developed organs.
Someone's daughter.
Broken down into nothingness.
A dead carcass.
Packed down into thousans of weighed bodies.
Lured into the darkness.
A scene only in a film.
Black butterflies trapped in a web.
Little spiders trailing up her spine.
Grasping at her thighs.
Plunging into her soul.
Trapping the butterfly into the small enclave.
Crushung its wings, and tarnishing under the soles of their shoes.
Tearing it apart until there is only a bruise left.
Bloody sheets and rough hands.
Darkness, capturing a wing.
An army of resilient little caterpillars.
Draped in black cocoons.
Flourishing under a diminishing light.
Fingernails scraped under charred legs.
The butterfly is not able to reform.
A butterfly is only able to be made on paper.
The butterfly feels as if she's suffocating.
There is a hole in her tiny heart.

A heart, in which there is only bleakness.

If you trap the butterfly its small frail body will crush into your hands.

With thousands of tears, only one wing. The butterfly lives, but with only one string.

A web holding it up on a line.

Its cocoon has been tipped over and rummaged through.

Those hands alone will feel its wet covering.

Slipping through crevices with its beady eyes.
A ravishing touch.

Vibrant red swirls.

The butterfly's wing collapses.

It has been dismembered.

And has lost its fight.