In the Butterfly Room

One, from time to time, may feel that love is just like the butterfly room; one may like the way enter into its softness first, for the tiny, unfurling wings' touch fondles tenderly, gently. But there comes a time, when one may find that these wings are made of razors; circling, whirling one all over engraved by both the sin of the flesh and the crime of heart, writing into one's helpless skin, that cannot be shed ever again. With engraved letters, scribing meticulously, and bathes every page in the ink of love, giving birth to the story of pain, the story of us.