My mother used to tell me that I was like a butterfly. That I brought beauty and joy to people. I had always hated that. That I was something that should be stared at. Something someone would find to pin on their wall because of gracious wings that calmed storming seas. I remember laying on the kitchen floor, lungs bursting, knuckles bleeding, mind screaming. Trying to find a way to make all the pain go away. Racking my empty, useless mind for something, for anything. For some reason, a thought flickered through my brain. 

"Butterflies do not depends only on the nectar of flowers to survive. They feed off of the sodium found on corpses."

I liked that. That something living in the stomach of young lovers and floating from the heavens could feed off of somthing as hated and as brutally honest as deatj. It made me feel like even if I was a butterfly, I could still have a dark side. I could feast on the shadows and form crescent smiles to light up darkened skies. That I could use the twisted roots of my regrets to fuel my flight into a misty morning. So, if I am a butterfly, I will let them pin my wings to the walls. As long as I can tear my wings from the sharp cages and feed off of them when they are gone.