Dearest,

A small cocoon rests in the bottom of my stomach.  Hunger gnaws at the lining of my stomach, I know my cocoon can resist the acidity of digestion, for it has not flourished yet.  Other's butterflies have already escaped their confines, flown away even, free to roam other lands.  Mine is still a small dormant creation.  My dormant butterfly tried had escaped, nearly a year ago, but was smashed by the insincerity and thoughtlessness of the others around me.  With a swiftness I will always remember he crawled back into the cocoon; this task was not frightful, for my butterfly does not have pointed antlers as some of the others do.  I urge him to escape the cavities of my organs, to fly free and bring me along.  He sleeps forevermore.