The most significant day of my life was beautiful. The sun kissed the top of my head. The meadow smelled of spring and fresh rain. The scent they have been trying to bottle and market to us for years now. I  saw a butterfly that day. Blue wings spread out like a jet. It was hard to tell where it began and where the sky ended. It danced among lilies, lilacs, tulips, and time. It fluttered across my lips and brushed against my toes. They say that I am lucky. That this picturesque moment only happens in an instant, but for me it felt like a lifetime. They say being kissed by an angel is a blessing. That heaven was spread across his back and wings and that he was blessing me with it. They say that the sounds of grace fall upon the sound of a butterfly’s flaps, but you have to listen long enough and hard enough to hear them. I heard them that day. It sounded more like heavy heartbeats to me than church bells.
I grew tired of their jealous eyes and longing glances. Their bodies grew green in envy, and their faces a royal violet, or flushed bright red, or white; an innocent daisy. They never asked for my side of the story. They never asked me how I felt. How I stood, rooted in fear, attacked by something they claimed was beauty, they claimed was angel. I did not ask to be blessed, but it happened.  Now I am alone, cold and fearful, caught halfway between lust and hate. I just don’t know how to feel anymore. Their words wrap around me in a blanket of self-loathing. It’s itchy fleece piercing at my skin. “He is so beautiful,” They say, “You are so lucky.” They “I wish he had landed on me like that.” My silent response is deafening ringing in my ears. They don’t hear me screaming over the howls of the wind, or the tears clinging to my eyelashes when the darkness breaks into a violent burst of light. They turn their backs on my cries.
Have you ever seen a butterfly up close? It has large black loveless eyes and a spindly tongue. It bears no resemblance to a smile, ice cream cones, or rainbows. Its hollow tongue pushed itself up against me and into my skin. That day it sucked the life from me, and I had to watch as he flew away, a belly full of my sweet sugar. He never looked back.
I have never looked at my reflection, but they tell me that I my cheeks are ruby red, the symbol of love. Do they think of me as they do that butterfly? I have seen so many in this garden cut down at the stalk. Their beauty, a death sentence. My life two choices, cut down in my prime, or allowing myself to rot. Then, I will be no longer be beautiful, but no longer cursed.
I love it when it rains. It is so purifying, but from it I no longer drink. I am allowing myself to wilt. I am growing hollow from the inside out. What do they see as they approach? Do they see that I am dying? What do they think as I rip off my plastic smile and they are stabbed, ripped open by my thorns. Do they resent me? It is only my second nature. Am I as bad as the butterfly? No, I am protecting myself;  he is feeding an ever present hunger. It is not my fault I am beautiful, it is not my fault I pierce. I am simply a rose in a rose garden.