Before the Dust

For the first twelve years of my life,
There was no direct purpose in existing.
But then—
on the night of my thirteenth,
butterfly wings sprouted
from my back.

I got my own garden to tend.

But with it came
three little ones fluttering close—
an eleven-year-old breeze,
an eight-year-old whisper,
a six-year-old spark—
each trusting me
to guide their flight.

But I could barely hold my wings up,
not even when they found shelter beneath them.

Nobody heard me ask for help.
Not even Sara.
Not Mom or Dad.

Grammy is worse.
“Don’t eat that! Eat this salad.”
(Lettuce. Chicken. Dressing.)
“Your wings are ugly.”
(Isn’t the breeze too crisp?)
“No! He’s just right.”
(Isn’t the whisper too loud?)
“How could you think that? She talks perfectly.”
(Isn’t the spark catching fire?)
“We’ll just put him out later.”

Even my cat is trying to eat me.

And all I can think is—
“There was nothing left to do
when the butterflies turned to dust
that covered my whole room.”

Who will stay with me?
When will this be over?
Who knows?

When will the butterflies come
to save me from this terror I am living through?

Come back!

I don’t want dust
and rotten wings.

I want my butterflies back.
I will treat them right this time.
I promise.