The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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42. Butterflies

Twelve little butterflies sitting on her wrist, a razor meets her arm and gives her a kiss.

Eleven little butterflies drawn on her thigh, a razor met her leg and kissed it goodbye.

Ten little butterflies fading on her arm, a razor met her wrist and did its harm.

Nine little butterflies trying to survive, a razor met her skin and she felt more alive.

Eight little butterflies dying one by one, a razor met her wrist and soon they’ll be none.

Seven little butterflies flying side by side, a razor met her arm and they’re too deep to hide.

Six little butterflies crying on her thigh, a razor met her skin and she really wants to die.

Five little butterflies lying on her skin, a razor met her arm and she knows she cannot win.

Four little butterflies striving to stay there, a razor met her thigh and she really didn’t care.

Three little butterflies leaving with her smile, a razor met her skin though it hadn’t for a while.

Two little butterflies begging her to stop, a razor met her arm and she’s feeling on top.

One little butterfly bleeding down the drain, a razor met her skin and she wasn’t the same.

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