[Have you ever been stalked by an image? Suddenly you're seeing something everywhere, and it's impossible to tell- which came first, the image or the metaphor. I wrote this three weeks ago, and it was like that. This quiet metamorphosis had happened and suddenly the butterflies exploded from nothing- butterfly stamps, butterfly graffiti in an alleyway, butterfly tattoos... It might be lazy to use something three weeks old, but I'm traveling so give me a break here.]
I've never, I think, loved butterflies. That romantic mysticism everyone seems to have for them? No. They're really just anorexic moths anyway (or are moths obese butterflies? either way. gross.).
I've been to the butterfly groves, seen the heaving, teeming masses of bodies clinging impossibly to trees, lumping in what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable manner and making branches weigh down heavy with little lives.
I will admit to a grotesque fascination for them- the kind of repelled curiosity a teenager has for her first zit that she squeezes till it pops. I can admire their weird beauty from afar- the erratic fluttering of colored paper wings, course changed at the slightest soft chuckle of air.
But once up close, as soon as they are near enough to me that they could without warning veer into my path- any appreciation I once held is gone. I just want them to go away. To avoid the inevitable stress that comes if I let the creatures get that close, I try to stay alert, to identify and then watch warily until they fly-hobble out of my sight line.
"Look at the butterflies!" They all say in wonder, as if they've never seen an insect before and this insect is in fact no ordinary bug but a miniature, portable angel from god.
"Look at the butterflies." I say, and when I say it, it sounds more like "look out."
Now, how I came to allow these unwelcome tiny terrors to take up residence in my stomach, I couldn't tell you. They must have flown and fluttered right into my path last night, and I didn't notice because I was playing cards with you, distracted by your eyes looking at me and our knees accidentally brushing and your hand lingering over mine- "Too slow, better luck slapping in next time"- and while my mouth was open teasing you the fairy suicide bombers dove antennae-first into my throat and they like it here and they might stay for quite a while because the weather's nice this time of year they hear.
Your eyes were warm. Your hands were, too. And I want you but you are weighing down my branches and even more than I want you I want you to go away. Because you are too close now, the way I find you beautiful and fascinating is poised on the tip that falls over into panic.
Look out. Look out for the butterflies.
It's too late for that. They're here, now, their migratory path has settled on me and in me, and I so badly want to be someone's home. And it's been a year since I've felt a thing like seasonable climate- and winter must be thawing if the butterflies have come. I am not frozen tundra. I am warm. I am maybe Spring. Or at least I'm on my way there.
I am somewhere where the butterflies want to be. And right now, that is not such a bad thing. I think for once I might let them stay, since they were clever enough to sneak in and catch me off guard.
I'll keep them, but I have some migrating of my own to do. So thank you for the butterflies. I'll remember that you're the one who first brought them back.
Can I return the favor and give some back to you before I leave? Or should I settle for blowing you butterfly kisses from across the card table?
I've been to the butterfly groves, seen the heaving, teeming masses of bodies clinging impossibly to trees, lumping in what looks like an incredibly uncomfortable manner and making branches weigh down heavy with little lives.
I will admit to a grotesque fascination for them- the kind of repelled curiosity a teenager has for her first zit that she squeezes till it pops. I can admire their weird beauty from afar- the erratic fluttering of colored paper wings, course changed at the slightest soft chuckle of air.
But once up close, as soon as they are near enough to me that they could without warning veer into my path- any appreciation I once held is gone. I just want them to go away. To avoid the inevitable stress that comes if I let the creatures get that close, I try to stay alert, to identify and then watch warily until they fly-hobble out of my sight line.
"Look at the butterflies!" They all say in wonder, as if they've never seen an insect before and this insect is in fact no ordinary bug but a miniature, portable angel from god.
"Look at the butterflies." I say, and when I say it, it sounds more like "look out."
Now, how I came to allow these unwelcome tiny terrors to take up residence in my stomach, I couldn't tell you. They must have flown and fluttered right into my path last night, and I didn't notice because I was playing cards with you, distracted by your eyes looking at me and our knees accidentally brushing and your hand lingering over mine- "Too slow, better luck slapping in next time"- and while my mouth was open teasing you the fairy suicide bombers dove antennae-first into my throat and they like it here and they might stay for quite a while because the weather's nice this time of year they hear.
Your eyes were warm. Your hands were, too. And I want you but you are weighing down my branches and even more than I want you I want you to go away. Because you are too close now, the way I find you beautiful and fascinating is poised on the tip that falls over into panic.
Look out. Look out for the butterflies.
It's too late for that. They're here, now, their migratory path has settled on me and in me, and I so badly want to be someone's home. And it's been a year since I've felt a thing like seasonable climate- and winter must be thawing if the butterflies have come. I am not frozen tundra. I am warm. I am maybe Spring. Or at least I'm on my way there.
I am somewhere where the butterflies want to be. And right now, that is not such a bad thing. I think for once I might let them stay, since they were clever enough to sneak in and catch me off guard.
I'll keep them, but I have some migrating of my own to do. So thank you for the butterflies. I'll remember that you're the one who first brought them back.
Can I return the favor and give some back to you before I leave? Or should I settle for blowing you butterfly kisses from across the card table?