soon we shall be pinned and framed, perfect butterflies whose wings can no longer flutter. we shall be displayed and documented and studied, pressed against the glass, our wings intricately laced across our delicate skeletons. others will marvel at the nonsensical patters of spots that mark our bodies, we shall remain trapped, confined by the glass and the frame and the pins that weigh us down, down onto this sterile board while we wish to be down in the soil where our lifeless bodies belong.

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