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Releasing all of the butterflies

from fingers embedded with nervous tension.

My hands will never be the same.

And neither will their wings.

In the spirit of interacting with the beauty that only a god could bestow upon them,

I left them twitching and gnarled in my palms.

I feel the shame of my naivety.

Why wasn’t I born with a touch as soft as the leaf of a flower?

Why must I crush in order to learn the art of caress?

For I too have felt the pain of a touch intended to tether a bond.

I pray to the ethos for survivors,

anyone or anything to remedy the burden of my remorse.

I dream of a voice that sings just softly enough to resemble affection,

And a skin with resilience,

equal to the sum of my undoctored presence.

I call to the wild,

yet, there is no echo in these plains.

I’m humbled by my existence, however strange.

And as my mind rests in this cloud of melancholy,

I pray the flutter of a wing will place its kiss upon my shoulder,

So I may etch into my mind a way I can hold her.