This poem is a reflection on how, as writers, our mind loves to evade us.

The Butterfly 

There is a butterfly that flies between worlds.
I see him, always there, within my reach.
Tempting, taunting.
To follow him through the mirror, the sea, the sky.
He is a winged rabbit, and I am Alice, powerless to resist the snare.
He takes me to libraries that spiral up and up, endless stairs and boundless realms. 
Phantom hands tug me to meadows, where cities dwell inside puddles and every flower is a portal of never ending wonder. 
I follow towards battlefields and bloodshed, magic and miracles.
Crystal caverns and floating fairy tales dwell at my fingertips. 
He whispers secrets behind my ear as stories collect under my nails, my teeth. 
His words are etched into the crevices of my skin, each universe inscribed into my fingerprints.
I am Ariadne, casting the butterfly’s string red as blood, my hope the cliff at the sea.
I am Perseus, who follows his string, and my hope is the waves that pull the cliff down.
He is the labyrinth, who knows in his heart that I will never escape. 
He is the bottomless lake of ideas that pools in the hollows of my skull.
He is the cup that empties it, growing forests of stories taller than the stars.
He is the clouds, who rain glistening crystals, filling the lake almost to flooding. 
I am the hands whom the water evades, the fingers that it slips through.
I am the mouth that drinks it, the liquid running a burning path down my throat, my mouth, my chest, dripping onto my bare skin.

There is a butterfly that flies between worlds.
He is my muse, my creativity, my love and my life, my hate and my fear.
My pen is the net that captures him, holding him in the prison of my ribs for an agonizing second or two before he slips out of my grasp yet again. 
And I am the hunter who chases the butterfly, who has spent my life following him as my feet evade the fire in my wake. 

There is a butterfly that flies between worlds.
He is my mind, and the one thing I will never trap.

The Moth

I write to the moth in my mind, she who resides between my eyes. 
So similar yet so very different from the Butterfly, the line between them a dangerous one to live upon, a tightrope set alight with madness. 
A beauty exists with the Butterfly, the worlds we visit are opulent and wonderful, dark and terrible.
But a shapeshifter pulls me down within, the Moth not always a moth.
Why does a wily fox visit me at night, her words jewels cursed far beyond what any fairy tale would comprehend?
Why does a raven bury talons of words into my mind, the blood that falls from my eyes as entrancing as the clarity that comes with it?
When the moth spreads her wings, will I see my face reflected in the papery patterns?
Will you lead me to the edge of the cosmos, my love, and watch as I weep?
Will you weep with me, or will you push me across the brink?
She is the darkness that comes with creation, the words that escape my lips on the street as I see faces and worlds that are not my own.

Process

Writing this poem was hard. Baring myself to the page is nothing new, but truly talking about my relationship with myself and my feelings has always been difficult. Luckily, I had my amazing mentor Ivy to help me every step of the way. My piece was inspired by a dream I had about a butterfly who flew through a mirror, and that led me to use that to write my reflection.