butterfly

They say I’m like a butterfly:

beautiful and free.

And I agree,

all I want in life is to flutter my wings;

to cultivate beautiful things.

I am independent and bold on my own.

I soar unbothered by the world below.

But it’s rather tiresome being all alone;

it’s quite lonely not having a place to call home.

And so when I inevitably have to land,

I leave myself vulnerable to curious hands.

The boys chase me with discreet nets

and lure me in with sweetness.

And in moments of weakness

I fall victim to such treatment.

I let them take me home and put me in a rose-colored jar;

and for a moment I finally feel safe in someone’s arms.

But my wings stop once my heart starts to flutter.

And a butterfly who doesn’t fly is well...just butter.

So naturally you’d want to discard:

an unsightly jar of spoiled lard.

But did you forget I was once a butterfly back in the spring.

And yet, you ask why I can’t fly after clipping my wings.

Spring will come again and I’ll relearn how to fly,

but you boys will continue to chase a butterfly;

as if you’re setting traps for the likes of a field mouse,

while I search for a man who can give me a greenhouse.