PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Black and yellow intertwined between shoulder blades, shaping pinned wings and a small body, severed and missing an antenna, weaving memories with a promise of better days. It’s bittersweet. I can trace it with my fingers and watch as shivers change its texture into the tiniest bumps, the smallest sign of a rekindled life. I still remember the virgin skin, and I remember her, in zigzagging emotions, merry, mournful, both only seconds apart from each other, taking me along in a rollercoaster ride. She’d keep me up at night in long conversations, full to the brim with dreams and confessions, slowly picking at our shells until nothing was left. Because of this I realized that through our life we usually find symbols in art which we relate to our own lives, and this was hers, a well-known album cover, a butterfly, which is beauty, but without its wings, meant to signify something broken or deeply hurt. This was her everyday fuel, what kept her going; so much of her had been reflected by it that it was giving her strength, I loved that, yet it crippled me inside. The butterfly was everywhere, and so was the music that came with it, she never parted from it, and probably never will. A couple years ago yet another incident took place, and it brought us down, again, this was the symbol that pulled her through, and through her, me, an easier task, I admit. And so I recall her skin, kiwi, I called her, because of her tanned pigment, and I recall her eyes, sad even when joyful, I don’t think that’s ever going away. Always so smooth to the touch I remember caressing between each scapula, bare until everything collided, leading to this symbol, imprinted. It still means everything to her, it has for a few years now, five maybe. It seems like every time misery rains on her, these wings unpin and cover her head, acting as a catalyst for recovery. It’s difficult to imagine what hardship feels like, and it’s not as simple to overcome as movies make it out to be, there’s really no hero and sometimes no clear villain, mainly there’s just victims. I watched her, and still do, come back from everything, maybe scarred, but always willing to give her best, it’s an amazing thing, recovery, bursting with surprises both good and bad.I’m astonished to see how she still stands, of course I’ve held a steady hand out to her, but I doubt she’d ever even met me if this symbol, this butterfly hadn’t landed on her shoulder and pinned on her back.