Corkboard Wings

I am six and too young to know better,

all laughter and curiosity and youth,

balancing on my tip-toes as chubby fingers grasp

at the wooden box on a bookshelf,

gazing in awe at the butterfly tucked within.

I am eleven when I open that box again

all cartwheel and sticky summer smile-

a smile that fades when I see the pins.

Needles thrust through my butterfly,

crucifying those gentle wings to a corkboard cross.

I am fifteen when the butterfly's corpse is moved to my bedside table,

and at night I whisper to the box's macabre contents.

We are the same, you and I,

all pins and pain and appearances.

And as I walk out the door I pin up my smile-

for what am I if not a decoration in this box we call Earth?

I am twenty when I throw the box to the ground,

all freedom and broken glass and rage.

There are holes in my wings,

stiff from being pinned to corkboard for too long,

and a dull grey has replaced the blue.

But my worth is not defined by the color of my wings

and one day

I will fly.