WHEN MY BUTTERFLIES DIED

I remember everything. The stares, comments whispers even the smell. I remember making that decision, that I’m too young not to be a little modern. My old soul complained, we do not do this! , We are romantics, my heart and I, we fall in too deep too fast. We hold on tight then fight to survive because it gets tough at times. So when I met a city boy with no regard of what I believe should be right I decided what the hell, I could be a city girl too.

It is one phone call and hundreds more from others just like me. Hoping for time, for moments to see dazzling smiles and pretentious chivalry, words so neatly wrapped in sex appeal you don’t even know what it is that you are actually consenting to. I flew way close to the sun and just like Icarus my wax melted and I was plummeting head first into reality and my heart bears the sunburn of that fall. In no time I was breaking rules, lying with a straight face, driving into the moral tree, getting scarred, bandaging the scars and ramming straight into it again. I was stuck in emotional purgatory because I was letting a blind man drive my sensory car too carelessly.

I was jealous of people I never met, disturbed by dreams that were clearly only mine. I was being torn apart by my own overactive imagination. It built cities and brought them down in an instant. Let me rephrase, I built cities that HE brought down in an instant. I tried barricades but those came down too. So I got into the trenches, not knowing he thrived on playing in the mud, where muck and shit was his forte. I was mud-slang effortlessly and fed so much bullshit that I was turning into him and I enjoyed it shamelessly.

I was living in a world of so many possibilities with no end in sight. The only thing I was sure of was those butterflies; those goddamn butterflies every! Single! Time! I skipped beats, time travelled a bit, soaring , trusting and believing in the thrill of the danger that I was putting my heart through. We are always careful; we need a break to be a little naughty. Live on the edge, dangle our feet, see if we are fallible or we are too scared to find out we are invincible. I danced his tune and only changed it a bit as the music changed, wore my heart on my sleeve for him to see. He nodded in approval because my heart is beautiful. It had been broken and polished a few times so it has deep scars etched on its surface. The last person who had it left huge stitches but we healed it, me and him that is. He was salve I was bandages and in no time only the scar of lovers past could be seen.

It was good, it was the ‘stop and take it all in’ kind of good and the grim reaper could smell it. It must have stunk because I was walking with a spring in my step, filling rainbows in my head and finding the pot of gold repeatedly. He came calling in all his glory, with thunderstorms, lightning; grey clouds and so much rain. The trenches could not save me, neither could he and I had no one to blame. I had seen the clouds gathering and I saw the flashes from a distance but I chose to stay because I loved being his partner in the mud.

The beginning of the end is so vivid it feels like yesterday. I say feel because I can still taste the pain as the knife sinks in. Daring to leave a new scar parallel to the one we just managed to stitch up. The day his cocky arrogance was more of an insult than the sick humour it once was. That surety of having a puppet in your hand, one that you make move, bow, bend and dance to your will is addictive. The kind of power and control that oozes off people his calibre is what attracts you first, keeps you grounded and finally twists the knife over and over in the gaping hole in your back till it washes over in the numbing aftermath. I had become too comfortable. I showed my colours, the blues and greens and turned lilac because purple was his colour. My monochrome was disappearing in his version of grey. He knew it and he turned up the heat to remind me that I’m too gullible to be a city girl and he is too experienced to be warped up in my version of happy.

I wasn’t surprised I was let down; I was surprised I was hurt. I had prepared for this because they don’t stick around. They thrive on the thrill of being wanted. On having the ability to suck up the air in a room and we are left both stunned and awed. So began the descent into an abyss of mental torture and heartache. Circling the drain and promising myself that it was not the day we get washed away in a torrential downpour of tears.

Comfortable became rose stems and petal games of he loves me, he loves me not. Conversations became mind games and word chess. The trenches were too unbearable so I climbed out. I hoped I could be Juliet and my tower wouldn’t be too high to reach. I started barricading and this time he wouldn’t be bothered to come topside. His colour was fading and my monochromatic self was starting to show again. It was fading away way too fast. My head could handle it but my heart, my poor bruised heart, couldn’t it still insisted on staying. So I tried another, I tried alcohol, I tried music that was way too sad but every look , every stare and every note reminded me of what I lost and wanted back. I gave in to the sorrow and let it heal me. I cried some nights, I laughed at myself too hard and scolded myself on others for not learning yet.

He will remember my broken smile as I let him literally drive out of my life,

I will remember the dazzling one that sucked me into his.

He will remember my little scared voice as I pleaded for him to stay,

I will remember the nonchalance the enlightened me on how unimportant I was.

He will remember the hopeless look and defeated goodbye,

I will remember it as the day my butterflies died.