Sunday, May 2
About a friend
She turned, awaiting her luxurious dress to twirl out in front of her, for her hair to turn gracefully and light around her bony shoulders but all she got was a slow fragile movement, her runned down nightie barely moved. She had made her way to the mirror, waiting to see something beautiful in front of her but all she saw was dead butterflies, their wings torn and curled into themselves as if even at death they had to protect themselves. Her eyes had drooped, her lips bruised and her eyebrows needed to be attended to. Her hair was like rags, the material so worn out the thread was at different lengths and moving in opposite directions. She expected to see the eyes of a 17 year old but instead saw the eyes of the dead. Starring at her eyes once more she saw them cry. A motion that apparently happened so often she had become numb to it. Her swollen lip begun to wobble and her body folded into itself, her wings draping over to try protect her; the dead. She peaked her eyes up just for a moment to notice the steps of a man in the distance, her man, her death sentence. She bowled her fragile head down once more, her hair breaking off onto her legs and she felt her body turn into dead butterflies as he approached her.