Five butterflies whirr around my head--
playing catch-me-if-you-can with each other's glowing, neon flutter.
I'm elated to see these spectacular creatures in orbit around me,
as if I, their sun-god, controlled the order of their motion.
These insects of one kind are replaced with a another grotesque form--
and instead of butterflies, I see red, hourglass shapes on spiders' backs.
They gnaw at my leg hairs and crawl up my bony spine,
one
furry
leg
at
a
time.
Making sure to take a venomous, itching bite at every inch.
But my hands cannot move.
I am forced to bare witness to my own suffering and death.

And that is why I write.
I write to let the floodgates of my pain down,
to release the winch of my stresses,
to cause my readers discomfort,
and to make them feel like children again.