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Fly On Butterfly (To Lizzy)
I never thought that I'd see those, especially not on you.
Those tiny little marks that use to mark my arms at one point too.
I never thought that I would see them on you.
Staring up at me as you told me there's more on your shoulder and your legs.
I didn't think that it would be someone like you.
You're my boyfriend's sister, always following the Punk-Goth trends, collecting Hello Kitty and finding different ways to cut your hair short.
Sometimes you get in your moods and can be not so much as great company.
But you've been better and can actually be really sweet.
You love art; tattoos, painting, movies, drawing, poetry-- Anything you can make.
I just thought you were an individual.
Sure I knew that you had problems with school and friends.
And sometimes you tried too hard to make your parents proud.
Andrew told me. . .
He told me that you've had some hard times too.
I just. . .
I just didn't think that something like this would happen to you.
Maybe that's why you've been nicer to me in the recent days.
Maybe because I showed you the remnants of my own fatal disease.
Is that why you seem more like an old friend then a headstrong girl that I could not relate?
But those marks you showed me.
Covered by your beaded trait.
How could I not have seen them before?
How could no one have guessed?
Or simply not have known?
So you're the girl in the poem you wrote.
The one that questioned her own self-hate.
The one that carved the word "WHY" on her leg?
That was you.
And no one knew.
No one knew that it could possibly happen to you.
I hope you're getting better.
They seemed to be healing, not red cuts.
But pink little scars.
I hope you don't start again.
It's the wrong path to choose.
I know that might not mean much, but you truly have a lot to lose.
You lose your free will when you depend upon a blade.
And you soon become a shell, or you feel poorly made.
And you're not Sally from Tim Burton's movie, when you fall apart you can't be sewn so easily.
No matter how big the needle.
Or thick the string.
You can't be pulled back together, not when you feel like nothing.
An empty shell.
An invisible ghost.
These are the feelings that you will feel if you depend on a piece of metal to remember you're real.
I know it doesn't seem like it, but I do care about you.
We might not have much in common but I know that I can help you.
Maybe not with Shakespeare or your English homework like I have offered so many times.
But maybe just talking to you and listening to you talk about things you think no one could possibly understand.
I do understand. . .
And maybe I'll tell you how much I've heard, one day.
How I haven't had the best life.
How I also kept a knife in my room.
How I wanted to die, and came very close to doing so.
If what your poem says it true then you mended because of a friend.
That makes me happy to know, that you had some kindness shown.
But if the darkness come back and you feel that chill.
And the scars start to itch.
You're not alone because I've been there too.
And now so are you.
Here I am now, writing you a message that you may read one day.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I'll keep this to myself.
A secret wish that I can only hope comes true.
I care about you Lizzy, always remember that.
And that's why I'm writing this. . .
But mostly because I just didn't think that you. . .
You, of all people would do this too?
It surprised me.
It startled me.
But I will honor our secret.
I will not tell your brother or show him this poem.
I promise.
But you need to promise me something too.
You have to promise me that you won't do that again.
That the girl I was will not become you.
No one should feel the horror of that awful disease.
That stifling addiction that slowly kills your soul with each slice and each cut.
There is no pleasure, only pain.
There is no joy, only tears.
I use to cut not because I wanted to die.
But because I wanted to remind myself that I'm still alive.
Let me tell you that once you get out of that darkness and you find the thing that's worth living for.
Your life becomes that more precious, and that's when you have everything to lose.
So do not fall into my old home of the razors and knives, do not tend to long for the blade.
Because you have a life, but if you focus on the bad.
You'll never know what's it's like to live.
So fly, fly, fly. . .
Fly on butterfly.
Do not let anyone clip your wings tonight.
And do not be your destroyer and cut them off yourself.
Because you'll rise to be something great one day.
Just pace yourself.
And fly on butterfly.
I have a feeling you'll be alright.
Those tiny little marks that use to mark my arms at one point too.
I never thought that I would see them on you.
Staring up at me as you told me there's more on your shoulder and your legs.
I didn't think that it would be someone like you.
You're my boyfriend's sister, always following the Punk-Goth trends, collecting Hello Kitty and finding different ways to cut your hair short.
Sometimes you get in your moods and can be not so much as great company.
But you've been better and can actually be really sweet.
You love art; tattoos, painting, movies, drawing, poetry-- Anything you can make.
I just thought you were an individual.
Sure I knew that you had problems with school and friends.
And sometimes you tried too hard to make your parents proud.
Andrew told me. . .
He told me that you've had some hard times too.
I just. . .
I just didn't think that something like this would happen to you.
Maybe that's why you've been nicer to me in the recent days.
Maybe because I showed you the remnants of my own fatal disease.
Is that why you seem more like an old friend then a headstrong girl that I could not relate?
But those marks you showed me.
Covered by your beaded trait.
How could I not have seen them before?
How could no one have guessed?
Or simply not have known?
So you're the girl in the poem you wrote.
The one that questioned her own self-hate.
The one that carved the word "WHY" on her leg?
That was you.
And no one knew.
No one knew that it could possibly happen to you.
I hope you're getting better.
They seemed to be healing, not red cuts.
But pink little scars.
I hope you don't start again.
It's the wrong path to choose.
I know that might not mean much, but you truly have a lot to lose.
You lose your free will when you depend upon a blade.
And you soon become a shell, or you feel poorly made.
And you're not Sally from Tim Burton's movie, when you fall apart you can't be sewn so easily.
No matter how big the needle.
Or thick the string.
You can't be pulled back together, not when you feel like nothing.
An empty shell.
An invisible ghost.
These are the feelings that you will feel if you depend on a piece of metal to remember you're real.
I know it doesn't seem like it, but I do care about you.
We might not have much in common but I know that I can help you.
Maybe not with Shakespeare or your English homework like I have offered so many times.
But maybe just talking to you and listening to you talk about things you think no one could possibly understand.
I do understand. . .
And maybe I'll tell you how much I've heard, one day.
How I haven't had the best life.
How I also kept a knife in my room.
How I wanted to die, and came very close to doing so.
If what your poem says it true then you mended because of a friend.
That makes me happy to know, that you had some kindness shown.
But if the darkness come back and you feel that chill.
And the scars start to itch.
You're not alone because I've been there too.
And now so are you.
Here I am now, writing you a message that you may read one day.
Or maybe not.
Maybe I'll keep this to myself.
A secret wish that I can only hope comes true.
I care about you Lizzy, always remember that.
And that's why I'm writing this. . .
But mostly because I just didn't think that you. . .
You, of all people would do this too?
It surprised me.
It startled me.
But I will honor our secret.
I will not tell your brother or show him this poem.
I promise.
But you need to promise me something too.
You have to promise me that you won't do that again.
That the girl I was will not become you.
No one should feel the horror of that awful disease.
That stifling addiction that slowly kills your soul with each slice and each cut.
There is no pleasure, only pain.
There is no joy, only tears.
I use to cut not because I wanted to die.
But because I wanted to remind myself that I'm still alive.
Let me tell you that once you get out of that darkness and you find the thing that's worth living for.
Your life becomes that more precious, and that's when you have everything to lose.
So do not fall into my old home of the razors and knives, do not tend to long for the blade.
Because you have a life, but if you focus on the bad.
You'll never know what's it's like to live.
So fly, fly, fly. . .
Fly on butterfly.
Do not let anyone clip your wings tonight.
And do not be your destroyer and cut them off yourself.
Because you'll rise to be something great one day.
Just pace yourself.
And fly on butterfly.
I have a feeling you'll be alright.
Published 7th Dec 2012
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