Torture

The butterfly fell apart on the windowsill

like a letter crumpling closed without bleeding.

Its wings twisted inward as the sky folded

in shame. It felt appropriate to look away.

It was inappropriate that it landed

like a breath I’d been holding for too long.

I was ill because I asked a question 

no one answered. I once threw a pebble

and it skipped so far I imagined it never sank.

I didn’t touch it,

but imagined its wings had turned sharp.

Maybe it was because I’d stepped on a clock

and I’d been wearing desert sandals.

Now my feet were bleeding.

I picked up the clock 

and turned the hands backward.

I bent the window like paper around a wing bone

and watched the butterfly fly again

so I’d have no apologies to send.

I watched it crawl backwards against

the edge and bloom like it knew of its extinction.

I watched it carefully fold its wings and drop

like I’d ripped away its balance with the moment.

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Lara Chamoun is a high school student from Toronto, Canada. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Toronto's Young Voices Magazine, The Diamond Gazette, The WEIGHT Journal, and On the Seawall. She was a 2024 Adroit Summer Mentorship mentee in fiction and reads for Eucalyptus Lit.