By H.R. Parker
She crawls into my waiting mouth while I sleep. She comes on silent wings from the dark side of uncertainty and sneaks past my parted lips. Dream-whispers creep past and float in the air, disappearing forever. She crawls down, down, down, spindly legs at awkward angles, down the tunnel of my traumatized trachea. Into my belly to lay her eggs. She does this nightly, and I can’t stop her. I try so hard but to no avail. When I wake, the eggs have hatched, metamorphosed. I can feel them inside of me, leaden butterflies. Every morning, scraping gashes into my belly.
Sometimes I can ignore the lead butterflies, but they start making new slices and scrapes into my fibrous flesh when I do. They rise up sometimes, up and up and into my throat, abraded by their mother the night before. Then they begin to pull, dragging my breath down, down, down. I begin to fold back into myself and retreat. I fold in at the corners to collapse into myself. A tiny square. I’ve refolded so many times the paper is tissue-thin, like a butterfly’s wings, powdery and torn slightly around the edges.
When I fall into a fitful sleep, the lead butterflies rise back up, this time stopping in my lungs. They wrap their sticky dream threads around them, hijacking my breath. I awake, at the edge of panic, frenzied dreams still dripping from my eyelids. My heart is in my throat, a bass drum pounding out an erratic, desperate rhythm. I fight to retake my breath from these invaders, but the more I fight, the weaker I get. They flutter suddenly, all over, invading. My throat, lungs, stomach, their leg-knives digging in. The fear rushes up, up, up, from dark places and spreads.
We wrestle the lead butterflies and I. I wrestle for my breath, closing my eyes to will away these unwanted visitors. With each breath, I push them down, down, down, once again. To die in the darkness. I win, momentarily.
But in the night, she comes again. She crawls into my waiting mouth while I sleep. She comes on silent wings from the dark side of uncertainty and sneaks past my parted lips. And I can feel them inside of me, leaden butterflies. Every morning, scraping gashes into my belly.
Heather R. Parker is a freelance writer, editor, and poet from Georgia. Her work has been published by Nightingale & Sparrow Magazine, Goats Milk Magazine, Analog Submissions Press, Between Shadows Press, Friday Flash Fiction, Clover & Bee Magazine, 365 Tomorrows, and others. In her spare time, you can find her doing yoga, taking long walks in the woods, birdwatching, or picking flowers in sun-dappled meadows. You can follow Heather’s writing on Instagram and Fictionate.Me.