The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

Spilling words onto paper and carving meaning into lines
is not foolishness—it is courage. It is reaching through silence,
finding a place where no voice says, I don’t believe you,
where no ear turns away, impatient for action alone.

Some build worlds with hands, some with footsteps,
Some with quiet ink bleeding into parchment.
You know he will never read them.
Perhaps that is the most painful truth—
But it does not make your words worthless.

They are the stitching of a heart mid-repair,
The slow gathering of what was scattered,
The unspoken confessions shape the air.

If your choice feels like the right one for you,
then it is not for anyone else to name it as wrong.
Regret may whisper, memory may sharpen,
but your words are yours, and they are real.

Maybe action is permanent to him,
But language, even fleeting, is permanent to you.

And perhaps, in ways unseen,
He feels the weight of what you have written,
even if he never reads a single word.

Ms. Butterfly Genesis