I’ve always been fascinated by monarchs,

How the seem to glide effortlessly in the wind,

How the lines on their wings is like paint on a canvas,

Sometimes I wish I was a butterfly,

I could soar instead of fall,

I could be admired instead of tired,

But I’m not a butterfly,

I’m me,

And the lines on my thighs aren’t like paint on a canvas,

Their like crinkles on a paper,

No one wants to write on a crinkled paper,

So they trash it,

Each comment and word is engraved in my heart,

But the papers already crinkled,

There’s no straightening it so might aswell help it crumble,

Each tear stains my cheek like a line on a butterfly’s wing,

When I think about I’m more like a butterfly than I think,

Or maybe a butterfly is more human than me