Dead Butterfly

By Nida Fatima

The butterfly's dead, with remnants of the

horror dancing through her head,

of the terror in her eyes, of the night of dread.

A horrendous cry escaped her lips

as she struggled against his iron grips.

His fingerprints map her body like a rag doll

as he held her down, leaving her sprawled.

Her broken crown pulsated with cries

as she screamed and begged with tearful eyes.

Cowering in fright, for she was just a child,

as she bled, for her innocence was defiled.

She's no longer that child, delicate and frail,

but the memories of his touch still prevail.

Her silenced screams, the cries unheard,

her shattered dreams, her justice unserved.

Her muffled voice, devoid of choice,

his vile deeds and her deafening noise.

For her own good, amidst the tears unshed,

Oh, how I wish she were long dead!

By Nida Fatima