Butterfly Dance

Photo by Elijah O’Donnell from Pexels

For a few months I thought I was done and cured.  In remission.  But then like a butterfly puzzled by the flower, my thoughts rustled with curiosity about where he might have gone, what we may have discovered had I known, and lighted upon the center of nectar’s supply.  Perhaps I’d have spread more joy as naturally continuing on my way, simply resting in flight, understanding my part in play. 

As always, true nature dictating this butterfly dance, difficult to capture beyond patterned predictability – but artful as you are, you’d understand I’m comfortable with being adored, only once fooled into being captured.  My net has grown larger and I’ve stopped believing in the haze. 

Next to perfection were recitals where we all did our best to steady our knees shaking behind the piano grand, beneath the towering ceiling with stained glass reflections imprinting insatiability onto our sub-conscious.  Had we known there was medication to make you want to attend and participate and applaud, we’d lifted you out of your pit and fed you manufactured happiness. 

I sat down at the grand again, hiding from taboo coupling of sexes all the same, watching them interact with champagne flutes in hand.  The celebration was one of them owning their celebrity, being known for who they were in the moment, unapologetically themselves—benefactors of freedom and peddlers of coke. I wanted to play but then I’d be expected to perform, so I sat running my fingers lightly across the keys—afraid to make a noise should it be discovered I had no taste, unlike the prized Hors d’oeuvres promising party-favor self-worth.  

I will escape from here just the same.  Once you run from one world, the next wants to convince you this is it.  There’s nothing beyond beautifully lit verandas with cascading ivy and colorful flowers framing the most beautiful men.  But you see, there was something to be told by my performance that day, where I played the wrong song, classical piece from a prior life—while judges frantically flipped through the pages to find where I had gone. 

And now here I was, in a huge cathedral, hearing a majestic trombone.  Heralding the purest of intent, ushering in handcrafted toy soldiers constructed from empty spools of thread carefully lined with glitter glue.  This was my world, perfectly engineered by my mother’s hands.  Like the sound of sharp scissors designed to cut cloth for stitching together something grander, I felt the material being painfully fashioned according to pattern specifically chosen for someone else to wear.  Ill-fitting beauty, I’d settle for daydreaming that dirty he held me, watching me play.

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