butterflies in a glass jar
I am a glass jar.
I have butterflies trapped in me, their paper-thin wings thrashing against the walls until the air hums and the sides tremble. They beat themselves bloody, splintering from the impact as they try to escape.
But their voices are too quiet, their worries too small, and nobody can hear them. So they stay, screaming in the silence, still crying when only darkness echoes back.
I am a glass jar.
I can withstand the tide for a while, but time will wear me down, and I will overflow.
I can hold the water, but it swells, pressing at the curve of my ribs, and when it spills it will run red, slipping over the rim like something alive.
I am a glass jar.
If you hit me too hard, I will shatter.
The cracks will widen, and the edges will glisten sharp as teeth. I will cut whoever tries to hold me, no matter how gently their hands close around my shape.
You cannot keep a jar from breaking once it has started; you can only hope to catch the pieces before they scatter. The butterflies will escape then—ragged, trembling, more dust than wings—and they will not thank you for their freedom. They will only remember the glass.
And I will remember the sound they made when they died inside me.
When I died along with them.
