Corkboard Graveyard
You say
That you love butterflies
Yet I find you pinning them to a cork board graveyard
Good thing
I am a moth
You say
That I was never enough for you
You spend hours dissecting me
Poking and prodding my wings, trying to "perfect" me until I fit your mold
You rearrange my spectrum of colors until I am unable to recognize the palette
And then you attempt to stick in the pin
And yet I find
That my heart still beats
That my wings still spread
That I am not a part of your cork board graveyard
That I can still fly
You say that you love butterflies
But I have found people that care less about the colors in my wings
And more about the flutter behind them
And the feeling of moths in their hearts
When they enters the garden grounds
They describe my being as a masterpiece, rather than as a collection of smudged mistakes
I am not a butterfly, I am a moth
And being so is enough for me