Scene: You were standing in a field with lots of lovely wildflowers.
There was blood everywhere,
A gallon and a half,
(to be almost exact)
And she was pale-
Like the moon,
If you want to be cliché, if not
maybe a piece of mozzarella
Ha! (What a cheesy metaphor!)
She was Still
But she was not Still breathing
Her lungs were ice, you can't
Catch your breath with a frozen chest.
So there she was lying in the sun,
Absolutely and totally covered in blood
And here they come-
Growing up you saw pictures
of butterflies, sitting on flowers,
you probably even learned about their life cycle.
And when you got older someone told you
Hey! Did you know butterflies drink blood too?
And maybe you did know that and maybe you didn't, but the important part is that it's true and you probably haven't put much thought into it. I mean why would you?
anyway, my point.
The butterflies come and they perch on her arms, and chest, and eyes.
They rest, and they drink, and they live just a little bit longer and soon she is absolutely covered head to toe and you can't see her pale moon face, you just have to imagine that her body is under this chaotic blob, and more of them are coming and now all of them are fighting, and you never even thought that this was possible,
and now they're hitting each other and falling and dying and you, the luckiest soul gets to watch the battle of the butterflies.
The terrible grace of beauty under pressure.
No one ever said that butterflies were nice. Beauty does not equate kindness.