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I'm scared of butterflies.

Light as a feather but they weigh me to the ground,
thousands of wings encouraging though I'm always still too scared to jump,
they want me to soar, to leap, to you, but I can't.

I live with constant butterflies.

They flutter innocently inside my stomach,
not knowing the bruises that will eventually surface,
and they fly when you're around,
flying and crashing, lovingly burning, destroying the walls that I so carefully crafted to keep you out.

As they escape through the cracks in my defenses,
I make mistakes.

I will smile and laugh and reach out for you, and you,
You will trace the lines of the cracks with your fingers, and I,
I will not be able to stop you because your cool touch numbs the bruises.

I won't stop you because for a moment you're what I want most.

And you will look at me with eyes that leave no hints,
and you will breathe that you love me,
and before I can make any more mistakes,
before I can say that I love you, too,

The butterflies will slip back through my senses.

They will create new bruises, reminding me of the pain you can't help but cause.

And I will make excuses, because I'm too much of a coward to fly.