Sometimes the way you look at me
makes tiny paper cuts
all over me.
Somber brown eyes,
unfeeling
(or feeling all things),
uncaring
(or hiding all cares).
I feel a searing pain.
Not mine,
not yours,
but the entire world’s
paper cuts.

And sometimes when you look at me
and look away,
I catch glimpses
of something stirring beneath silky threads.
Its bold hues
soothe the tiny paper cuts
with just a flutter.

I see the butterfly.
It is beautiful.