The Write Site

Can I ask you a question?
How can I be
a waste of space,
if I’m a nothing already?

Why do I feel
like a butterfly,
Benjamin Buttoning?
Shrivelling back
into my cocoon.
Beauty gone,
wings clipped,
flight no longer
an option.

I feel
I know the answer.
It’s on the tip of my tongue,
but it won’t come out.
Like the lines
I so desperately strive
to write.
Or the words I wish
I could bring myself to say.

I feel
I’m nowhere,
but is that really different
from everywhere anyway?
Regardless,
I’m spread too thin,
or there’s not enough
of me.

If I could stop,
I would.