A butterfly, landing on your upturned palm
seeks trust in the warmth of your skin
and a place to rest, to shelter
in the spring days that still bring winter chills.
For the minute she sits in your hand
could be years in her life span
and yet she chose you, saw something
in the blueness of your eyes
that she wanted to be closer to.
Maybe it reminded her of the sky,
where her blessed wings allow her
to spend her time;
except you’re jealous of her freedom,
her ability to fly
and whilst you didn’t stop her leaving,
instead you took the fingers from your other hand
and in childish fascination
slowly plucked her legs off one by one.
Humanity’s twisted appreciation
for the wild creatures, who give us love
that we just maim until they’re gone.