The butterflies’ bodies contract and expand, sending themselves lifting and falling through the air, propelling themselves forward, and performing a mythical dance. I tilt my head in wonder. The shirt from the psychiatric ward itches my neck. The spring breeze tickles the goosebumps on my arms. I find that I am smiling. The auditory hallucinations, as I now know them to be, ramble in the background. Two butterflies approach my picnic table: oscillating back and forth, not sure what to make of me. My eyes glass over from their chaotic yet rhythmic ways. I slowly extend my hand as if to catch the colours of life in my palm. A butterfly lands on my index finger. Its feet are alien objects. Its wings are trembling eyes of blue and green.

I see myself as a boy, watching butterflies encircling each other: this child at play, compulsions dark and deep. I was so happy then, so innocent. This was before I knew the chaos of madness, the spiraling shame of schizophrenia, and tearing down the intimate parts of me. A butterfly landed in my palm. I giggled. I wanted to snap it close, hold the living rainbow in my fist, and mount it in a wooden frame (wings spread) as a trophy from the natural order. I leaned in, sneering, and planned my attack. But then… those wings… they looked at me. I puckered my lips and blew eternity into them. They bent as they took flight. I forgot to breathe.

My smile grows—that blue and green.