Her mind shatters,
into a thousand pieces.
She does not have to face,
all the pain at once.

Encasing herself,
in the dusted wings of a moth.
The sun does not reach her,
though neither does the night.

Sometimes she plants flowers,
and starves them of their food.
Now they know her sorrow,
oh now they know her sorrow.

Shouting becomes muffled,
under her warm sheets.
Where she stays throughout the day,
whispering her name.

And one day she will bloom,
but it won't be bold and innocent.
Because only butterflies dance,
and only butterflies cry.