Scattered across my arms like constellations in the sky
A kaleidoscope of butterflies,
Wings painted in silky smooth ink
Each with its own unique design,
Its own enchanting name.
But each with the same purpose:
To keep me from harm
Two instruments sit in front of me,
One that draws in crimson
And the other in ebony ash,
One with a dangerous edge
And one with a shining point.
The tip of my finger lightly traces the delicate wings
Of each butterfly,
Reminding me of why they are here,
The purpose they serve
The mission they hold
Their reason for existing, for living, for breathing
They beg me to choose the right option.
But how can their wings of glassy obsidian protect me?
How does something painted upon my snow-white papery skin
Protect me from the horrid things
That have spawned in my head?
The things that burrow deep into my skull
And eat away at my soul?
With a sharp inhale, I begin to draw again
But this time, not in ink
And one by one
My protectors die,
Their fragile wings torn apart
About the Author
River Mossfield is the pen name of a second year psychology major and creative writing enthusiast at Selkirk College. They enjoy writing many things and have a special knack for writing from unusual points of view and about darker subject matters that many would consider taboo. Outside of writing, they enjoy drawing, painting, baking, and cuddling with their adorable cat.
