bumpy plane ride

She says things she does not mean, she yells out loud and stamps her feet. She is in full temper mode, her face contorted into a furious and terrible mask. I am afraid to approach her. I do not know who she is right now. It does not make sense to be afraid of this 5 feet tall hurricane, but I step back and try to think. Think think, think how to escape from all the noise and the bad vibes currently blowing in my face. Ah she is dead set on giving me the full effect of her anger.
I go deeper in my mind where a door is slightly open. I like this little opening, which promises to cut me from the blast, shelter me from the upcoming pain. I need that little crack. I concentrate on how gingerly I will push the door, on the curiosity and hope that will cross my face as I go in, the warm rays and butterflies I will find inside. Not that I am particularly in love with butterflies. But right now they are a very safe and appealing image.
Ah the door is here. I open it and I get in. Yes, it lives up to its enticement, its little crack promise, its warm rays and butterflies. All around me they are, fluttering their little wings and spreading their safe vibes. I like to watch as they circle me, smell me and then sit down on my arms, hair, shoulders, swell of my breasts, and prickle me. How gently they prickle me, how lulling their little antennae touch me, how soothing the colors. I do not even mind the blood leaving my veins; I do not even need blood here. It does not help. I gladly give it to the butterflies.
I imagine she is even madder now because I am gone and she can’t torture a shell. Well, she can but there is no satisfaction there. The shell won’t cringe, the shell won’t run deep inside its mind, and hide in a strange room full of bloodsucking butterflies behind a slightly cracked door.
Tomorrow, maybe my veins will be filled with new blood to save from her fury and give to the butterflies. I like it.


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