Tinfoil Butterfly

by Rachel Eve Moulton

“And madness in its simplest form is narcissism—a self stared at so long and so hard that any potential beauty in it becomes horrifying.”

“Everything has an end. A beginning, middle, and end. That’s basic shit,” I say. “You’re born. You live. You die.” “It isn’t like that. It’s cyclical.” She cocks her head to the right. “You begin, you begin, you begin. Or you end, you end, you end. Either way there is no stop. No go.”

“Love.” That’s another good one I’ll never understand. The word begins and ends with a sound so soft, so gentle yet it congeals on my tongue. It doesn’t hiss or howl or swoosh. It only sits there, mouth rotting.