My Lepidopterist

I can hear that music again, her song, our song, for a little while. I can hear her voice, soft and lilting, and the words are sweet as honey. But then she pauses, right at the part where her heart is breaking, and she turns to me, that look in her eyes, the one that pins me to the firmament like a lepidopterist collection, skewered through my abdomen. That’s when her voice becomes a weapon, crashing into me, breaking me, smashing my arms of marble, cutting me down until I’m a child again, a bad little boy filled with shame, my face, red with panic, searching for a way out, a way back, my arms and legs strapped down, confining me.