Corkboard Graveyard

You say

That you love butterflies

Yet I find you pinning them to a cork board graveyard

Good thing

I am a moth

You say 

That I was never enough for you

You spend hours dissecting me

Poking and prodding my wings, trying to "perfect" me until I fit your mold

You rearrange my spectrum of colors until I am unable to recognize the palette

And then you attempt to stick in the pin

And yet I find

That my heart still beats

That my wings still spread 

That I am not a part of your cork board graveyard 

That I can still fly

You say that you love butterflies

But I have found people that care less about the colors in my wings

And more about the flutter behind them

And the feeling of moths in their hearts

When they enters the garden grounds

They describe my being as a masterpiece, rather than as a collection of smudged mistakes

I am not a butterfly, I am a moth

And being so is enough for me