This is a poem of a brokenhearted girl, the girl who hunted butterflies, with her boyfriend tattooed on her left breast, holding a japanese quiver, every launch of an arrow was a beautiful shot, She had fallen in love with butterflies with broken wings, She had been striving to be the only colored fly, her boyfriend,
the only man who was sitting in judgement, was in conflict with the racing chariots, that rehearsed across his door every 4pm, every move of his was diabolical, then he thought....he thought about the envelopes that came with stamps, stamps that glowed at night and transformed to wingless butterflies, he had now become so suspicious, like the caricature of a man with gout, ****** would work,
this was the jealousy of a stupid boy, who never knew about the tender acts, the acts of shooting butterflies, the beautiful girl had been plucking the small wings, of the shot butterflies, and had planted them under their bed, and now she had grown two beautiful wings, her only dream was to fly away with her boyfriend, she looked herself in the mirror,
the moment of trying the new outfit, she looked like a giant butterfly, our poor boy, the child struck with anger, waved a dagger,
like a bird she chirped and flew away, through the window she was gone.