Please tell me there’s some confusion, or perhaps there’s been a mistake in my understanding. Please tell me you’re gay and you’ve been friendly because you like my personality. I can accept that. I would completely understand. You can even say that I’m just not your type. I would totally see your point. From the lyricist, Jill Scott, “Not everything is for everybody,” are real words I live by.
But this, this not knowing which end is up is driving me insane. The secret smiles you send my way when no one is looking, the little four-finger wave you give on the low that draws a smile out of me when I wasn’t even planning on curling my lips upwards. It’s just you, the singular you and the plural you; it’s your tone, your scent, your walk, your style. All of it sends those light carefree winged butterflies to dance across my stomach, and haphazardly float up into my heart, and again pull that unexpected smile.
I can’t take this torture of not knowing and constantly wondering, and maybe even fantasizing about the possibilities of you and the possibilities of me and those butterflies mingling.
I just need to know, or better yet, I wish that I could be a possibility. I wish I knew that it was not my imagination running wild and it’s been your true intention sending me those blessed creatures.
I beg you to tell me your intentions. Please tell me there’s been a misunderstanding, or tell me there’s truth in these butterflies of mine.
Just tell me something! Show me more than a smile from across the room because it’s not enough for me to draw any conclusions, nor is it enough to catch you stealing a glimpse of my spirit from the corner of my eye.
I have worried myself raw with the “what if’s,” the “possibilities,” and even the “I must be all kinds of crazies” for thinking a guy like you would be interested in a girl like me.
Each hypothesis has its own story, yet they always end the same: me not knowing the truth behind my butterflies.
I just remembered your dimples and again an unexpected smile slipped out, and another butterfly escaped for a solo dance across my heart.
It’s crazy that I keep wasting precious time wondering about the possibilities and negotiating with myself over your secret smiles. It’s crazy that I’m waiting on a response that may or may not ever come. Crazy is what I’ve become. Its the constant yearning for answers to this mystery. Why are you sending me butterflies?
There’s not a day, and Lord knows there has not been a night, that a butterfly hasn’t appeared. They float about as I recall our subtle interactions of the day. The butterflies flap their delicate wings across my mind lifting and dropping as they slowly make their way to my heart. At first it was cute and rather innocent. I enjoyed the company of my little friends. Their beauty reminded me that I was human, and that I still possessed human qualities.
But time has passed, it’s been six whole months. This is a different story with a different plot. Now, I feel cursed as they dance across my unwilling spirit. I feel taunted by their lightweight wings flapping for height and flapping for recognition. Those finely spun wings have sliced away my façade leaving my skin bloody, punishing me and confirming the “What Not’s”. My black butterflies remind me every night of a possession that was not meant to be owned and a mystery that is clearly filled with dread.
My Black Butterflies are a burden that have left me with self-doubt. I no longer feel beautiful, nor do I see beauty, and the qualities that make me feel special are not human. So, tell me the truth. Tell me there’s been a misunderstanding. Tell me I’ve over analyzed the situation. Tell me there are no possibilities. Please tell me anything, just don’t send me any more butterflies.
The joke is over and the fun has long since left. You’ve made a fool of me. What was light and airy is now a dark affliction.
My little black butterflies, please leave me be…