I remember before the flowers were half dead

when the butterflies would come 

and suck them dry

The syrupy sweet 

dripping down their delicate straw tongues

In the garden I would pretend 

to be a flower in desperate hopes

of joining their world

Drenching myself

in artificial sugar water

pink lemonade

and alcoholic perfumes 

Lying in the dirt 

Still and hopeful 

Only to witness

The butterflies surpass me 

like spoiled, sour fruit

once honeyed

once fragrant 

Now left to be consumed 

by the colorless earth.