Butterflies by River Mossfield

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.

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