Wounded Woman Broken Butterfly

It matters not
The cocoon bore the sweetest succulent fruit
Ripe and ready to be tasted and explored
In anticipation of a new life filled with frolic, fantasy, adventure
And so much promise

It matters not
The wings once golden translucent, shiny and spread
Are closed, singed and broken now
Touched by a wounded heart
In a moment of deceptive delicate lightness

It matters not
She was disguised and smelling of love
Yet crippling with the most sensitive touch
Never intentional
Innocently at times
But maiming just the same

It matters not
The broken butterfly has no fight, no flight left
No journey, no path, no love, no something to rise for
Useless pretty wings
And tears of morning dew

It matters not
For wounded women now and forever
Will destroy the very love they seek
Their grasp fierce and tight and painful
And then question why it falls apart

Wounded women will always
Always break the butterfly’s wings
For they can not bear to see
Such beauty
In flight

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