Hey budding butterfly,

Can you hear me?

Tell me where your home is

And we can have tea!

Hello little butterfly,

So gently you fly

Can you teach me to do so,

And help me touch the sky?

Dear, dear butterfly,

You buzz with glee

What is it you suck from the flowers,

Can I have some for me?

Playing with my hair,

Is that you?

Do tell me butterfly,

Why are you so blue?

Excuse me, butterfly,

I heard you were a worm,

My friends too call me a bookworm

So tell me, how can I transform?

Oh dear butterfly,

No, no, no!

I have much more to ask you,

So please don’t go!

Oh, my butterfly,

Where are you now?

If you come to me, flutterfly,

I will promise you tons of love!

I understand butterfly,

You too have a home.

But come to my window tomorrow,

And together we can roam!

Life had been unkind to R. M. Renfield. Many failed business endeavours and unsuccessful courtships and stripped away his confidence and sense of self-worth. These defeats, he knew, were the reason he ended up in the care of Dr Seward at the Carfax Asylum.

John Seward was a kind man, and his work with Renfield inspired in him hope for a future. But, at the age of 59, Renfield was aware he had already surpassed the life expectancy of 1897 by seventeen years. To ensure he was able to see his dreams achieved, Renfield’s thoughts turned to ways in which he could extend his remaining years.

And thus he began to devour live creatures, believing their life essence would be transferred unto him and grant him more time on Earth. He started with the beasts readily available in his cell; spiders and flies. Occasionally, when his reflexes were quick enough, he could reach through the bars of his open window and snatch a bird from the air.

The variety of Renfield’s diet was improved when the foreigner entered his life. His new friend would send a great range of insects to his cell, providing Renfield’s palate with new delicacies.

Though repulsed by his eating habits, Renfield knew that it was worthwhile when he was introduced to the most beautiful woman ever to grace the planet. A friend of Dr Seward’s romantic interest, Wilhelmina Harker visited the hospital with her husband and several other men. Renfield spied her through his cell door and was instantly smitten.

Her face was that of an angel, soft and glowing. Her delicate frame spoke of her need to be protected and loved. Dark circles around her eyes hinted of nights of sleeplessness, a sign that she was troubled.

Renfield knew that he could ease Wilhelmina’s woes, that he would quell her fears and grant her a peaceful rest. All he needed to do was break free and confront her; their love would do the rest.

And so, Renfield set about escaping the asylum. Day after day, hour after hour, he pulled on the bars at the window, loosening them by imperceptible degrees. He stopped only to attend interviews with Dr Seward and his new-fangled phonograph, to eat the meals sent by his mysterious benefactor or to gaze with longing whenever Wilhelmina was near.

In less than a fortnight, Renfield had freed two of the bars. Two days later, the rest followed and he was able wriggle through the opening and flee Carfax.

Hiding out in the cemetery beside the mental asylum, Renfield waited until Wilhelmina’s next visit then followed the carriage back to the Harker’s home. He waited until night had fallen before forcing his way in and creeping through the house.

In the bedchamber, he found couple lying together in their marital bed. Incensed, Renfield felt an overwhelming urge to take a candlestick from the dresser and dash Jonathan’s head to a pulp. He resisted, knowing that the time spent despatching his rival would be better spent in Wilhelmina’s company.

Peeling the covers from her sleeping form (and averting his eyes from her nightgown), Renfield carefully lifted his love and carried her to the drawing room. He gently placed her on the chaise lounge, draped an embroidered throw over her and pulled a chair closer.

Her chest rose and fell rhythmically, hypnotising him in wonderment. Her lips trembled as her breath was softly expelled.

He could not say how much time passed before she stirred. Her eyelids fluttered twice, and flicked open to reveal beautiful sapphire seas behind them. She stared at him and he felt the powerful emotion in that look.

This was it, Renfield knew. This was the moment he would reveal his love for her and they could begin a new life together. No more would she need to pretend affection to the man upstairs. No longer would Renfield’s days be devoid of light or joy. All he had to do was choose the perfect words.

But his mouth was dry, his throat constricted. His belly quivered and danced, nervous and giddy and excited. Fear and doubt roiled in his gizzards like a turbulent ocean.

For the first time in his life, Renfield experienced butterflies in his stomach…

…and regretted his breakfast of caterpillars.

when you say wings

do you think of her tattoo

spread across two shoulder

blades that touch like

oozing nectar on her spine?

or when i say flying

do you think of the

plane that will carry you

home or the bird that

sings with no intention

to be pure?

or when i say butterfly garden

do you think of a hallmark card

made for commercial consumption?

or when i say butterfly are you

transported somewhere beautiful?

-butterflies

When butterflies start to flutter around the sky once every season I try to be optimistic. I remind myself of all the things butterflies represent for people. Freedom, lack of restraint, maybe lack of insecurity. I want to think good things, pretty thoughts, peaceful sounds. I don’t though. When a butterfly enters my sight, my mind races back to her. The sweet click her tongue made when she was thinking hard about something, the loose fitted tank tops she wore to late night parties, the curly fiery hot hair that shaded her uncentered eyes. But most of all I think of the collection of butterflies tattooed on the upper backside of her neck. My fingers traced those butterflies every time we saw each other, over and over again. And the last time we saw each other I wanted so badly to reach down into that box and trace that tattoo again. One last rub around the ink. I didn’t care if the spot on her skin wouldn’t be warm anymore, or that it lacked the radiant pigmentation everyone remembered her for. I just wanted one more moment with her and that silly butterfly tattoo.

Not feathers

But paper wings hold the maiden.

Not an angel,

She is not a savior

Or messenger.

But a speciman

From above.

But to see her grace

You must look upward.

A butterfly

With paper wings.

There is really something special

With the first encounter

The butterflies

The young and innocent

Unknown as to what flaws are

The feeling of just meeting eyes

Oh the butterflies

The nerves of simply talking

The spark of happiness

With a simple thought

Constant butterflies

Wanting

Reaching

Changing

Fleeting

Idolized butterflies

The realization

Of the glorified imagination

The sinking feeling

Of the stupid butterflies