Insectarium

I wonder if the debris of her fragile wings

Could still be found in your fingerprints.

After all these years, I am still haunted

By your disgrace.

Are you still haunted by the look in my six year old face, when you chose me as the victim of witness for your crimes?

You took me aside and you opened your hands, and for a moment, I was satisfied. This would keep you satisfied:

The adoration in my eyes, the dimples around my smile, the hope and love you fed me for just a moment;

For just a moment, I felt chosen—

Special to be chosen; to be shown such a beautiful sight.

You revealed to me a butterfly,

Cupped safely in your hands.

Oh, but I did not know your plans.

First, your smile matched my smile.

Then it began to grow with something vile.

It was so sudden.

You clasped one wing between finger and thumb.

You watched as my confusion sunk in.

You seized the other with your entire left fist.

You smiled wider as my realization hit.

Then there was a pause, in both your movement and in my heart.

Don’t do it don’t do it don’t do it—

And then you tore her apart.

I wonder if the debris of her fragile wings

Could still be found in your fingerprints.

I wonder if the sound of my cry and the look of horror in my eyes has been plastered to the walls in your mind.

If so, had it been done out of shame,

Or did you nail them there for display, and that of which you are proud of?

The wing that suffocated in your fist had turned to dust; did you keep the other wing you had torn off?

I believe you have it pinned to a wall somewhere.

The way you had me pinned to a wall somewhere.

Her beautiful wings spread open,

The way you spread me open,

Before you tore me apart…

And turned half of me to dust…

Somewhere.

I wonder if you still feel me in your fingertips.

Are you still haunted by the sound of my cries, from when you chose me as the victim for your most heinous of crimes?