Butterflies.

He makes me feel sick.
Physically sick.
When people talk about butterflies in their stomach it's all cute and fluttery like their long, long lashes. But when he's walking up the crowded hall and he greets me with that smile, like he always does, I feel sick. Maybe I get caterpillars. Not butterflies. They writhe and tangle in my stomach, the acid and lack of space and air makes them die, rot and decompose. Yes... My mind is completely taken over by this image now and I can feel them scrambling and struggling to climb on top of each other. Their engorged bodies lolling around, slimy and sticky and bilious in colour... Their pine-like hairs prickling and piercing one another as they roll. One by one they become sick of the crowd and separate themselves into their chrysalis and wait patiently in the dark silken shells. Some lay half digested at the bottom of the pile and the smell is putrid. I think you could smell it on my breath. I can feel a blaze come up through my chest like heartburn...
Then he's standing in front of me and I forget the caterpillars.
"What were you thinking about?"
I forget them because I can feel them bursting out of their cocoons. It feels like popcorn.
I open my mouth carefully for fear that they'll all fly out.
"Oh... just butterflies."