Dead Butterflies.
I sometimes thing of the fragility of glass - of broken shards tearing against soft skin. When in truth, it is the transparency that kills you. The pain of seeing through to something you can never quite touch.
For years I've kept you in secret, behind a glass screen. I've watched helplessly as day after day, your new girlfriend becomes your wife and then later, the mother of your children. Then realizing the irony in thinking you were the one under glass when in fact it has been me -a pinned butterfly- static and unmoving, watching while your other life unfolds.
-Lang Leav
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