tattoos from an angel

She was very kind. Her Christian name is even Angela. Suits perfectly. And that day, strikingly, each of her friends had a tearful problem. Afterward, she bought a strip of temporary tattoo in the bazaar. With a help of a cup of Aqua, a pack of Paseo, and a scissors or cutter, then voila!
Meci got one sexy butterfly on the side of her neck.
Billy got one on his wrist.
Andie got two butterflies. One for his right bicep, and one for his back neck.
Billy then asked for more. This one was a flower on his right bicep.
And me? I got a butterfly on my left wrist, for a tearful problem that I thought it was me who hallucinated the whole knots of signs to become an agony, which I endure until I felt blessed.
And the angel? She got one too. One beautiful butterfly on her right hand, in between the thumb and forefinger, signified that she also had a problem.
And t’was, a real perfect painful day for us to smile over.

and this is a different story, played by the different butterfly...


.…and the butterfly didn’t understand. It flied around a yellow buttercup held in a strong grasp. At first, the hand shooed it off. The wave moved the wind around. It soothed the butterfly in this dry season. Wind run smoothly through its skin. Tickling sheer optimized by the pat of the hand. The hand admired beautiful pattern, which lingering on it. Butterfly really enjoyed, and didn’t understand. Then, the hand shooed, without patting. Minimum spoil made the butterfly reacted. It didn’t go away, but went nearer to the hand, asked for more. Then, I didn’t know what happened. I just turned my head for a while, attracted to adzan maghrib that stroke. Or adzan subuh, or the church bell, I couldn’t tell the difference. Since the puzzled mind was hardly processing what my ears heard, I came back to the butterfly. It was exhaustedly lying on a garbage pile beside the soil where the dandelions grew. And I heard the butterfly, “Ah, now I understand,” while it was struggling, twisted, in between stinky heap. The carbonate produced by the waste pulverized on the air, soaked into its skin, complete with low hiss. Ruined the beauty. And the butterfly said, “Thank you, for making me understand.”
Poor butterfly, I thought.