The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

It’s strange how little words can change how and why I keep looking at things. A sentence, a pause, a lowercase “ok”—they rearrange the whole memory.

I saw myself having specific conversations with you. I rehearsed, softened, and made them poetic in my head, but I never allowed myself to see how they would end, maybe because endings felt like failures. Or maybe because I thought if I kept talking, I could rewrite the pain before it arrived.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: if I had known what I know now, I would have never prolonged our conversation. But I did. I kept it going, hoping I was protecting myself from something unbearable. Something sharp and final. Something I wasn’t ready to name.

But silence has its own kind of violence. And I chose the slow burn over the clean break.

I don’t regret the words. I regret the waiting.

By: Ms. Butterfly Genesis