The pain and despair spreads throughout her. She feels it weasel it’s way out of her brain, it tingles down her spine and through her limbs. She feels it in her rosy red fingertips, down to the tips of her toes. At first it’s intense, like a thousand needles stabbing her in all the wrong places. But its fades. And fades and fades and fades. Soon, it’s just a sensation, light as a feather. If you closed your eyes, you’d think it was a tiny butterfly grazing your skin and setting flight once again. She embraces it, then. Welcomes it, even. It’s become a much more comfortable feeling, a familiar one. She knows when the pinpricks kick up again, she can handle it. She’s confident in the repetition of the universe. She knows the pain will fade, the feeling will transform. Because everyone knows, you’d rather be surrounded by a thousand beautiful butterflies, fresh out of their cocoons, than slim silver stems that send sharp stings through your skin and into your soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment