A butterfly caged is not a butterfly at all
by Jodie Cumming
The frayed cream handset clings to the wall,
Its worn plastic cover exposes the innards of wire.
She cant decide whether she fears more the electric shock
Or the shock of hearing it ring.
Around the dull room her eyes clamber, listlessly landing on
the curtains, bemused by their lack of sun; stale.
The sun bemused, banned from entering the room; stalemate.
There is no hope for those who exist in here.
Limbs mangled into the bed
Where sheets begin I do not know –
Where my legs end –
Do sheets begin-
I do not know.
The room is wilderness, endless, scopes in every direction.
Magnolia flower wallpaper glimpses true nature
And I want to peel it off
Peel, peel, peel it off
And wrap it around my body like a veil
A premature butterfly festering within its cocoon.
From outside her cocoon a faint chirping rings, sends
echoes whirring around the hollow room like lost ghosts.
The handset is alive until her ears begin to blister
and her own internal screaming blurs out the noise.
Too hemmed in to fly.
Too scared to spread her wings.
Destiny showed her a beautiful martyr;
She wept within her cage.