It begins with kecking a blue butterfly,
watching it struggle to stand afterwards
with a kind of perverse fascination. You cry,
hand flying to your mouth, before you turn
and rush to the bedroom, your safe haven,
blood-red hearts chasing after you,
hovering above like Apaches as you
take cover under the blanket. Why?
Why him? Why now? Your cheeks turn red,
and another butterfly crawls up your throat.
Cupid lurks in a lonely corner of the room,
a poison-tipped arrow glaring at your head.
His harp giggles when you scream in pain,
when you clutch at your hair in complete and utter vain.