-butterfLIES🦋

[Words to Image. My perception of a random image and the story it asks me to write. I look deeply at it and a quick 15-20 minutes later, this is what is born. I write these for fun. Enjoy!]

Her heart was stained an evil black and when she cried, dark tears snaked down her bitter face. Fitting, as was her very soul, deceptive and cunning. A busy forked tongue, constantly begetting deceit and lies, always mindful to tear down others so her butterflies could rise high and beautiful. But a dead soul cannot reproduce beauty. An empty mind cannot create the delicate butterfly. They were simply a figment of her imagination. Her thoughts were clouded with revenge, fueling a hatred that demanded a victory. She didn't want closure. She didn't want to possess what she carelessly discarded. She only wanted to win the fight; one she lost the very moment she chose to. It was a loser's dream.

She sat in the solitude of her night and thought about her pedestal. It was a vibrant white, detailed decor, high, and magnificent ... and fake. Fake as the praise she gleaned from the blind who fueled her disease.

She stared at all of the printed messages and conversations she had plastered around her room. She was compulsive this way. She re-read and re-lived each memory, focusing on the undeniable beauty of that moment, her part and hers alone. She wondered why she was the only one who ever did enough or cared enough. Why was her role always perfect. She smiled as her thoughts created little butterflies that flew from the pages and circled her head. Pretty little butterflies painted in lies and arrogance. She selected her version of the past and easily discarded everything else that did not benefit her, the truth. No one must ever see this. She washed her brain clean, denying that which reality stood on. Hers was all she needed, despite the flaws. She saw none of them.

She reached for the silver sewing sheers and violently bludgeoned all words that were not her own. Hers were perfect. She stabbed the printouts until holes formed in the innocent comforter below, but she didn't care. Collateral damage was a never-thought. Butterflies were all that she saw, rising and swirling amidst the fog and confusion of her egotistical thoughts. Butterflies, affirming her delusional stance in all things. Butterflies that air danced in confirmation. They were proof enough.

But if everything she did was perfect ... why was her life not? She had no room inside for these thoughts. She had butterflies. Lots of bright, beautiful little butterflies. And they were perfect.

But were they?

[Zoom in on the pic above her head (the mind fog) and you will see what I write about.

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