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My Life, My Writing

Letting the Butterflies On In

A cheetah can change its spots; a zebra can change its stripes; a man can change his behavior, and if he doesn’t, a woman can change her mind.

But oftentimes, heartbreak doesn’t begin with a woman changing her mind. In fact, most of the time, hearts are pounded, squeezed, and crushed over a long period of neglect and selfishness before it ever comes to that.

Over the course of history, the blood has been found on the hands of both man and woman alike. Hearts have been said to do all sorts of physiologically impossible things. Hearts have broken, fluttered, soared, and shattered. Butterflies have reportedly taken residence in the stomachs of the starry-eyed and breath-taken.

How does it feel to not know what any of this feels like? Well, it feels very much like nothing at all.

She lived her life on the three strikes rule. This was the third time that she had grown disenchanted with her beau and that meant that he was out. His fate was sealed and all that remained was executing the breakup. She’d decided that morning to go to the zoo for a little inspiration.

The more serious matter at hand was that this was her third subject of romantic interest, and because it too had failed, she would now have to subject herself to a life of solitude.

Celibacy? Maybe.

Without romance? Most likely.

without commitment? Definitely.

As she wandered the zoo, peering curiously into the cages of trapped and restrained animals, she attempted to draw a correlation between their plight and her own. While they may never be free, she could and would be. She would be free for all of them because she would rigidly act according to her three strike philosophy and consider the impending break-up her last.

All that was left to do was deciding how and when she would twist the dagger.

She gazed at a pair of swans and thought about how they had found love and she hadn’t. Perhaps it was easier for them because they couldn’t talk?

After careful consideration and a long, final gaze at the star-crossed swans, she determined that there had to be some sort of truth to that logic. In her experience, despite her complete and total love for them, the exchanging of words was good for nothing except for making a good intention into bad news and an already bad situation worse. Does it really matter if it is the fault of the speaker or the listener? At the end of the day, both parties remain more wounded than if neither had spoken at all.

She walked away hoping to someday feel her heart fluttering and soaring, lighting up the neon vacancy sign and inviting the butterflies on in.





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