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  • Writer's pictureErin

Not My End Game

Updated: Feb 10, 2023

they say, “something was born

on the Fourth of July,” and in my

little world, multiple things were born.

a sanctuary of butterflies

all red like burning fire

flying within the walls of my stomach

causing flips and turns and rushes.

a sense of security like a net,

big and strong and ready to catch me

even when I wasn’t ready to jump

and fall yet.


a love so intense that even the depths of

Heaven and Hell could feel it igniting.

and just like an Independence Day celebration,

fireworks, loud, and colorful

bursted out of me through every inch.


but like any birth it eventually ends in death.

and with the birth that came to us on

the Fourth of July

came the slow killing of who I was.

small chips at my soul until I was a shell.


the death of my feeling of self-worth.

the death of my sparks and lights.


a slow painful death.


my butterflies fell to the yard

and the fireworks turned to ashes.


I had to bury myself in the winter,

after watching you slowly burn out my light

in the fall.





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