Butterflies dance upon my wrists, showing the world a boy who's losing a mental battle. A boy who wants a metal skater to gracefully slid upon his skin, melting it to red water. But those butterflies, those multicolored saviors fluttering about me, are alive. If I allow that metal dancer, so elegant and clean, to preform upon my wrists then those butterflies will die. One tiny cut, and they will bleed with me. So it's my job to protect them, and their job to protect me. The light that shines from their silky wings scares away the dark demons within me. As they flutter through the darkness, their small voices whisper to me. Things like, "Don't give up" and "You can do it." When I have nobody else, they remain. I can hear them singing in my head, my friends upon my wrists. When I feel sad enough, I'll give them another friend, another savoir to dance upon my wrists. And I know I'm not the only person with butterflies fluttering on me. I hope that one day that they, as well as I, will have the courage and the strength to let our little butterfly friends fly away.