And perhaps, sometimes,
the white butterflies
that have followed me around for
the past two months
appear to me as moths.
Fighting for a chance at light,
stepping on my skin,
and kneading me into the ground,
despite their feathered touch.
Do you send me butterflies
because I told you
“Can I get wings behind my ear
on my nineteenth birthday?”
not knowing it would be the last
birthday gift you’d ever give.
How do I tell you now
that I want your favorite flower there instead?
Lavender carved into my skin forever,
trying to grasp that ink could possibly replace
a mother’s touch.
These garden butterflies
now crawl under my skin and flutter;
although I wait for them to dance around me
when I find the courage to see the sun.
I’ve been waiting for the soil I stand on to cave in.
For the mirror to crack when
I see a daughter
without a mother.
It is one thing to be haunted by loss.
It is another to share a soul,
feel them flutter up against you.
-a mothers touch
-
Art by Amelia Randolph