There comes a point
when the butterflies
cease to be butterflies
and become something
far more sinister

When the fluttering
in your stomach
turns to shredding, ripping, tearing
clawing you to pieces
from the inside out

Leaving nothing  but a pile
of flesh
and bones
and tattered dreams

But still I rise,
for I have grown accustomed
to gathering my entrails
from the floor