So many butterflies; on my arms, my thighs, my hips. I want to let them free, let them fade from each layer of skin, but the razor wants them dead. It wants to nip off their wings like little pieces of construction paper, slice off their antennaes, rip open their abdomens. Blood is what it lusts for, its trophy, its pride. It is no longer a tool, but a self-destructive weapon. It kills the living and the hope, takes away every color from their wings until there's only red.