laying on hospital thin bedsheets,
i am a butterfly with its wings pinned —
spread open for dissection.

here, a curious entomologist
examines the forbidden crevices
of my tiny body. here, she will discover
her shame and birth mine.

her fingers are deft,
hungry scalpels;
she plants a seed

deep inside the hollowed
cavity of my thorax.
pollinated by my despair,
it will flower into rotten fruit.

she promises to treasure me -
another painted specimen
for her display. her hypothesis

once damaged,
a butterfly never flies again.

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