Happy Birthday To Me

The only reason I’d let something I love go is if staying with me meant they’d die in my hands. Like the time I stole a butterfly and kept it in my house for ten minutes. I watched it cluster on my window net, fighting to flee. I wanted it close, so I didn’t let it leave. I brought in some plants, hoping it would stay, but it refused to lean on them. The plants, uprooted, had no time before they bled brown. So I let the butterfly go. I opened the window and watched its wings flap free. If I’d kept it, it would have died. And if I let it die, then I didn’t love it enough. Now, if I wanted it back so badly, I wouldn’t just steal it again. I’d create a garden first. Happy Birthday to Me. The Duchess of the deep bloom. I hope I get everything I deserve.