When I feel them, I cannot always publish my thoughts publicly, so I jot them down in a private place and let them age. This one has been sitting in a dark room mellowing for a time. While tidying up today, I happened across it and thought I would pop it up here. I am happy that I no longer have to live with the confusion of this quagmire.

        As a butterfly, I lit upon your finger. I loved the look of you, the smell, and the taste. I wanted—no begged you to put me into your pocket and keep me forever. You insisted you were not ready for the responsibility of that relationship. I waited. Eventually your love grew and you desired me to be yours for eternity. A box was not enough for you though; you had to put a pin through my heart. Inch by inch you conditioned my responses to coincide with your selfish desires. I did not know I was giving myself up. I did not know you were stealing my life. I did not know until it was too late.

It took years for me to loose myself from that crypt in which you encased me. It took ages for me to discover what pain the shaft in my heart meant for me. I squirmed, and I freed myself from your clenched fists. I could breathe again. I could view the universe from within the world—outside of my tear-stained cell. I could taste the fresh air and feel the warmth of the sun upon my face.  

Now you want me back. You do not see the agony in which you wrapped my heart; you do not feel the residue of my emotions upon your soiled hands—dust removed from my wings as I struggled to free myself from your smothering embrace. You do not fathom the pain from your needle always poised against my soul. You only know your own desire, but that is how it has always been. You want me back, and you say you are willing to settle for only placing me inside the box I once desired. I have tasted freedom now, though, and I can no longer live inside a cage of your creation. As I searched for an easier existence, I went to the edge of my comfort; I tasted fear through experience, and I conquered the bile that rose in my throat. I can no longer live in a cell of my own concoction. When life calls, I must answer. When my spirit says go, I will soar. I am the page on which I create my masterwork; I am my own magnum opus!

You cannot live with that; I cannot live without it.