Metaphorically.

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I’m like a butterfly
And easily crushed
But like a rock thrown at the ground
Come out unscathed.

Yes, it hurts
But instead it’s the hand that had thrown
The rock in the first place
Whose thoughts are not nearly as deep.

Does a hand have a heart, and no I think not
A butterfly does, though
And even the hard, cold rock does, also
But had used its hard quality against the hands of the world.

I’m like a butterfly
And easily crushed
And this butterfly’s mistakes are forgiven
While the hand is left wallowing in guilt.





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