butterfly collection

Can you die from the birth of a butterfly?

is what I ask myself every time I feel that searing pain between my ribs, where the chrysalis inside me threatens to open.

It hurts, it hurts a lot.

I would like you to wrap me in a warm scarf and tell me about all the flowers you like so I can forget that I am going to leave at any moment.

cradle me with your hands and hold the pain that feels crushing in my chest.

but it doesn't matter, it's going to end.

It will end when those colorful scales become present in my blood and cut my body with certainty, releasing that vibrant and last glow from me.

I don't even know if it will have a pretty color, if perhaps it will be full of gloomy, brownish eyes, I can't say for sure whether you will be scared or not when you see it.

Can a part of me at least be worthy of belonging to your butterfly collection? At least be part of your morbid delight, and perhaps, of your delicate study.

I promise to always have my opaque eyes fixed on your curious gaze through the glass, even if you pierce my wings with needles.