I talk about butterflies a lot.
I'm getting pretty sick of them, though.
It's almost the end of February. I haven't seen one in months. But I've felt them. I've felt them under my skin, crawling down my spine, taking up residence in my stomach. I can feel them in the night, inside my scalp, creeping along the inside of my brain.
I can't sleep.
There's the bringer of butterflies, who used to be my confidence giver. The irreverent Mistah Jay.
Whenever he walks by me, they start up. I shake all over because of these butterflies. I imagine that they're green and silver. His favorite colors. Once in awhile, there's a red one, a black one. My own favorite colors.
I'm so tired of these butterflies.
There are days when I look at him with contempt and disdain. Days when maybe I feel like if I could chase him away, if I can convince myself that I don't love him. Maybe I can convince myself that this doesn't hurt half as much as it does.
But you know...
Anymore, I wouldn't know how to live without the butterflies.
I wouldn't know how to live without him.