Butterfly by Andie McNamara

As a child,

Collecting butterflies in jars,

Thinking myself kind,

For remembering to punch holes

In the gold top lid,

I would watch for hours as two,

Or, Gods forgive me, Three

Sun-lit folk would batter their wings

To broken hearted "fairy dust".

"Dancing", I thought.

All for me.

As a woman, of course I'm horrified.

Could never consider such atrocities.

Yet still sigh with rose tint nostalgia,

At the death and destruction

One skinny changeling

Rained down on the floral fauna,

At the bottom of her garden.

You see, my tiny bouncy mind

Couldn't comprehend

How it felt to be so trapped.

Snatched up by some

Eager, ardent giant,

Dropped into a tight glass coffin.

There to be displayed

For friends and relatives,

Dutiful social butterfly.

Battering smooth walls

To Queendom come.

I didn't understand the slow, smother death

That this, which you call Love, could be.

Didn't feel the peril, lurking beneath,

In my multi-coloured joy of flight.

I had no idea. Then...

And so, you come into my garden.

Searching me out.

Or some other of my kind.

Look at you, man child!

Casting your net far and wide.

Swinging wildly in your rage.

Your right to win your prize,

All consuming.

But although these wings

Are dull and torn,

They still know how to soar.

it's an interesting offer you make..

I hand over the keys to my castle,

For a space on my shelf,

In your jar.

But I think that may be a hard pass.

I think I'll just float on...

And you, Sir...

Can ffffffffffflit right off!!...

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Andie McNamara is a Cork based poet who writes on themes such as Relationships, Mother Nature, Mental health, Magic, Coffee and Cats. She's actually quite nice, once you get to know her. She tweets @mcnamara_andie