Updated: Feb 9
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.