There is a scar on my back in the shape of a butterfly. I never look at it. But if it’s summertime, and depending on what I’m wearing, when I sit down I know others can see the tips of its wings—poised but never taking flight. Stuck. Frozen in time from the moment it was created.
I dread when somebody asks about it. I’ve yet to come up with a truthful explanation. The truth is horrible, ridiculous really...and I don’t want to admit it to anyone. So I gloss it over.
They say butterflies are free, but this one is my captive, my prisoner, a self-inflicted wound that reminds me of my own captivity. A silent testament to my naivete, my weakness, my blindness, my blinding mistake.