Hundreds of wounds on her butterfly wings,
They say she’ll never fly again.
She’s terrified, she believes they’re right,
She cries herself to sleep at night,
Holds fast to her sleeves in public sight,
Keeps face only in daylight,
Crumbling under cover of the darkest night.
She won’t let it show, but she’s falling again.
Every day she wears a mask of armoured skin,
She’ll never let another in; it’s too hard to say goodbye, and everybody leaves at some time.
Tired of the fight,
She tries again to end her life,
One long scratch with a kitchen knife.
She can’t live if she can’t fly, but she doesn’t even want to try.
They found her on her bedroom floor,
She hadn’t bothered to lock the door.
There was no hope for her, they said, and within hours she’d be dead.
They put seventeen stitches into her delicate wings with no expectation of changing things,
But when she realized what she had done, she changed her mind and she held on.
Today she flies higher, shines brighter and is more determined than ever before.
Those injured wings can’t hold her down anymore.