I’m afraid you won’t quite understand what I wish to tell you. Or perhaps
I’m afraid that you will understand and the few threads that hold the
blanket of my sanity will unravel and I shall forever be lost in this
complete and undistinguishable confusion of love.

Where did this attraction come from? It’s not a sudden notion, for I’ve
loved you in secret for quite some time. And this love has played a trying
game with hate—it seems that I am caught between my affections for you.

There is this simple, innocent love that I hold for you. A love that I’ve
nurtured and allowed to grow over the past years. A love that knows no
bounds, nor cares for the simple conventions of what society today considers
right or wrong. And yet every time I hope and pray that perhaps one day
you will look at me in a different slant of light, the sudden realization
that you may never hold the same affections that I hold for you crashes down
onto my heart and this simple, innocent love enfolds back into the safe,
deep corner of my heart—untouched, unloved.

In a very picturesque image, I can be considered a butterfly—free to fly
where I please, rest where I please. And you are the flower where I choose
to rest. You are the sunlight that washes upon my wings, showing me the
true feeling of warmth and happiness. You are the source of my very life,
my very being. And I, as the butterfly, revel in the wonderful realization
that everything is completely and beautifully perfect.

Yet on the other side of this notion, I am the moth and you are the
irresistible fire. I am the stupid, ugly moth who needs to be so close to
the fire. She needs to feel the heat of the fire’s passion, she needs to
know what it feels like to burn.

I want to burn for you—I want you to burn for me in return. I want to feel
skin against skin, your heart beating with mine. I want to feel your
tremble beneath me—lose control with me. I want you to give yourself
completely and without abandon. I want to be the butterfly who drinks the
golden rays of sunshine, the one—the only one—who revels in your warmth.

And with a few simple, careless words, I am again the moth—drawn to the
fire’s harsh, passionless heat. And like the stupid moth, I die—touching
the fire, dying to burn.

 
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