Mmmmmm how long has it been?

I have been spouting words from my lips, the golden glittery words of butterflies. I like to watch them dance up from my mouth, floating around my head, fluttering to the ears of those who hear them. You can see them land on their skin and melt into dripping gold, drip drip dripping down...

But they do not know that the gold is false, the butterflies are moths, and the words, so fine and slippery, are nothing more than air spun together in falsehoods.

Lies, sweet, simple lies. Little glances, little motions. Little ounces of guilt piling up and weighing down the wings attached to my back, the black feathers of ash...one more ounce and they weaken, tearing at the root, a painful hole will be there,once they have gone.

Nothing, my lovely butterflies, nothing, my little moths, absolutely nothing can be made from blackened ashes.