Tag Archives: heart

Mariposa  

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©CHAINFOTO24/Shutterstock.com

Mariposa, drifting through the wind, 
couldn’t wait to grow wings so that your life could begin. 

Found it hard to come out of your shell, 
but that’s a secret you’d never tell.

Mariposa, with the colors of fiery embers, 
went searching for warmth this September. 

All grown-up, with so much to live up to, 
suffered silently, while nobody else knew. 

Mariposa, why do you cry?
withstood wounds, yet still you could fly. 

Though you held on for as long as you could, 
you endured more than anyone should. 

Mariposa, breathe deep and close your eyes. 
You gained a new kind of wings, so in the place you left is where your memory lies.

Once just an adolescent, 
now your spirit shines iridescent.

Mariposa, your metamorphosis was remarkable for all to witness, 
it’s a tragic tale, your story had to end in sickness.

~~~
Much like last month’s post, inspiration for this piece came not from a true personal experience, but simply by learning about the life of monarch butterflies. Did you know that final generation monarch butterflies (born in spring, migrate south in fall) typically have a much longer lifespan (months as opposed to weeks) than the first generation (born late summer/early fall, migrate north in spring)? However, any of the migratory monarchs are likely to face threats to their survival along their journey. Therefore, some of the final-generation monarchs may not live as long as they are expected to, hence the idea behind this piece. I used the Spanish translation of butterfly, “mariposa”, as a nod to Spanish Heritage Month (September 15th-October 15th). If you’ve made it to the end of this, thanks for reading!

Writer’s Block

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Her mind is blank, but if these walls could talk for her, only then might you fathom the extent of her suffering. In the dead of night, they watch as she wakes gasping for air as if a cinder block has come crashing down onto her chest. While on solid ground she’s falling, losing her grip by the second, slipping farther while her aching fingertips are desperately trying to hold on.

Wandering aimlessly, she hasn’t a clue what she’s searching for. She’s trapped in a mirror maze of pure nothingness, accompanied only by several of her own helpless reflections staring back at her. She scours every corner, but amidst the flashing lights she’s lost all sense of direction.

The walls of this glass box she’s in cave, and through the thickening air she screams, yet nobody can hear her. All that’s on the tip of her tongue is the saltiness of her tears. She’s tormented by the the deafening silence inside her head.

What a beautiful tragedy it is for a writer’s heart to carve its own wounds. She lies awake on nights like these, tossing and turning, listening for distant murmurs. The closer they get, the clearer they sound and she can begin to slowly stitch her heart back together.

She remains restless until her heart is woven by the strings of all the words she’s for so long been trying to find. The mere presence of a single thought reinvigorates her entire being. At last she can breathe again.

~~~

As this final day of August was nearing, I feared I had nothing to say. I was experiencing the most intensely horrifying feeling any writer could have: writer’s block. I always thought there was no feasible way to put in to words the feeling of not knowing what to write about, as someone it should come so easily to. But, I thought, what if there was? And so, as I lay restless in bed one late night, I typed a list of words to describe all that I was feeling: panic, confusion, frustration, and so on. In doing so, suddenly my mind was filled with constellations of letters forming all the right words to give you this melodramatic tale.