Butterflies by Angela Thomas You say it like, like my mother, it's harsh and makes me frown, we need to talk, it's really not your words, it's something hurting behind them. I remember the words I try to live by- Don't regret anything, Own it. Still, I didn't like how you told me that these pictures don't make you happy, make you feel like we need a little discussion, and not over the phone either, that's really bad news, you know. There's a lump, maybe it's pizza, maybe it's fear, of what is on those glossed out Kodak shots, lord knows even I don't remember, growing and pulling inside my iron-walled stomach. Ironic? Slightly. Then again, it had been years since anyone made me feel anything in my abdomen. Vacuums made it all but numb. The tone of your voice made the butterflies stop and go quiet, flopping over to one side, barely twitching, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they could resume. 02/08/2004 Posted on 02/08/2004 Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas Return to the Previous Page   pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)