Corona Collection: My butterfly/ Boys are fickle

Iona Angus shares two of her poems on heartbreak and self worth, My butterfly and Boys are fickle.

My butterfly

My butterfly’s wing’s beat beneath my chest
I can feel it flapping against each rib
Each flutter, so strong, so tangible

Sliding out softly,
Delicate feather-veined wings
Brush against my throat as she leaves

I watch her go
Carried on the wind
Glimmering gold and heat
She follows the streams
The river man watches over her

Glades of trees
Silvery silence
Whispers are carried alongside
Through the wind on the leaves

Into the mountains, she disappears
A flash of blue and black and orange

Boys are fickle

You are made of dead stars 
Entire galaxies fit inside your skin
Time is an illusion
The past, present and future are all made by you

Boys are fickle
They are made of their father’s words
While we are made of flesh and blood
Blood that carries the next generation
Of warriors
Of words

Boys are boys
They are not men
They have not been through what you have been through
They have not survived what you have survived
With a smile on their lips
And love in their heart
They have not dreamed a tenth of what you do
You are starlight
And they are the dusky cloud beneath

I believe in meant to be’s
And forever afters
I believe in romance 
And passion
And fairytale
I believe in the light
At the end of the long and lonely tunnel

But I don’t believe in fickle boys

If they don’t recognise the magic and beauty in you
They don’t deserve to

Artwork by Amelia Elson.


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