I tap my fingers
On the Formica tabletop
The gold sparkles worn away with age
Like the fairy dust you sprinkled on my life.

You used to be a magic sorceress
Waving your wand and
Spreading broad strokes of color
Over the dull grays and browns.

But now your tales have curdled.
Your greens have become sickly
Your pinks parasitic molds
Scrounging at the scraps of life I have left.

I am a butterfly, newly emerged from the chrysalis.
I fought through the web you spun, thinking I wanted to see what was outside.
Now, naked and damp, I am not so sure
But I have nothing to go back to.

The world you made me has cracked
Scraps of fading green littering
A bone white relic
Of a Formica table.