The Last Butterfly

She twirled so entrancingly. Her skirt flicked and flitted in a rhythmic pattern of circular reason and empathetic chance. It was lavender. All iced over with sequins and sparkles like tears of a teenage homecoming queen. And the sound was unpleasant at first but slowly sublime as it mimicked a child's top pleasantly whirling around and around until it falls to an impatient touch. Her bodice was lavender as well with patterns of celestial musings and slivers of luminous sliver. And the sleeves were sheerly tinted; her arms taut and en pointe and they sparkled in dramatic display. 

Her skates were silver and they sparkled like all the diamonds in a hidden mine. They were an enigma themselves. The way they carried her with charisma and charm yet brawn and balance. The way they supported her through a crumbling foundation of ice and fire. 

Her hair was tied in a tight bun and she wore dusted silver eye shadow that was minutes from running down her face. Her lips were red and bitten as she shut her eyes tight and went for a jump. 

Her skate hit the ice with a scrape and she was off again with a murmur of approval.

She wore a fair amount of foundation that she was sweating off. It dripped down her chin and onto the ice, which feigned blue and purple like something reminiscent of a dream once had. 

And she pivoted and spun like a ballerina but with more gusto like an explorer of an unknown realm. A realm where your fire and ice were real and they rushed at you from both sides and refused to give way even after you fought tooth and nail, grace and skate. 

And she fought her demons on that ice. The way she cut to and fro and spun and kicked and cried and screamed until she was just twirling, twirling in agony just waiting for them to seize her.

She waited for the twinkling lights and the shy glitter to be her downfall. For her bruised knees and elbows and eyes and brain to cease moving. 

She wanted so badly to cut through the ice and fall into the ice cold water and drown. To freeze her thoughts and movements. 

Very suddenly her legs gave out and she lightly feel unto her knees. Her bones shattered to a million pieces like dreams of warmth and falsified mirrors. Silence descended upon her as she grabbed her head and cried out. Blood dripped slowly down her cupids bow the shallow foundation of ice and sorrow below her. 

Gently, her arms folded out into wings. Gloriously delicate wings that were rounded and painted like stained glass. They had biblical weight and presence and had the awe of something sinful. And they shivered quietly as the girl ceased sobbing. They were lightly green and yellow and looked like something far away. Like a meadow from a dream or a glint of summer. 

The girl sat up and touched the wings. They were soft and thin like paper. And she could move them; so she did.

So she flitted and fluttered and flew. She flew without her skates. And she flew without her restraints and conviction.

She flew away and never came back.