I am a child,
wrapped in cheap paper.
I'm tearing
at every edge.
I tape myself back together,
but I rip in a different place,
and I stare at it.
I feel my body scream in pain as I grin at a
stranger.
The wound is festering,
it's puce with grime.
It's growing and expanding forth from torn scars
that I've tried to heal with butterfly bandages.
But, every time the butterflies bite my skin,
after using their wings to keep
my laceration
from ripping further,
I use the bird that is my fingernail to pick at the scab,
and watch as the butterfly tumbles to the ground,
joining a thousand carcasses laid strewn next to me.

They're shrivelled and crisp,
scattered in disarray.

I hear them apologise,
for not staying so long.