I glare at the poorly drawn insect on my wrist,
Wanting nothing more than to **** it,
With a razor blade and the blood it could bring.
I want to cut it in half,
Watch it bathe in my wrath,
And feel that familiar sting.
But I stop myself short,
A deep inhale and I abort,
Put the razor blade down.
I walk away as I frown,
Watching the butterfly I’ve kept at bay,
“Apparently this bug is to live another day.”