Like they took out your insides and gutted you clean, pulled out all the intricate and delicately beautiful machinery that made you tick, made you like pumpkin lattes and dislike pumpkin pie. Threw it all on the floor. Displayed: your raw guts, bloody emotions, your entire thought process stretched out and pinned down like butterflies on an entomologist's stark pallid board.
That's how it feels.
Ripped clean, then stuffed up quick, a shoddy taxidermist job. A synthetic smile pasted on with cheap glue, slowing flaking off to reveal the frustrated frown encased by chasms of deep and troubled wrinkles.
It doesn't make sense.
But then again, I suppose that anything in life rarely does. You hate yourself for letting your mind wonder down that vast enigma, and for dwelling on it.
Because when it's bad, it's very bad.
But when it's good? Oh, when it's good you feel as if you can unleash a fire hydrant and dance in the warmed-by-the-summer-sun water. You can fly, arms outstretched in a wingspan that encompasses everyone you love. You are no longer pinned to the board. Instead, you are a butterfly slowly crawling out of your lethargic winter sweater, itching to have adventures, struck by the beauty and majesty and wonder and azure hue of the sky. For when it's good, it's oh so very good.
A buzz. A withdraw.
A fluttering free butterfly. An empty corpse pinned to a board.
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