The Butterfly on My Neck

Illustrated by Mbiko Mayaka

The first time I noticed it, I had just turned seven.

I remember feeling a shiver run down my spine, a slight tickle on the side of my neck.

I walked to the mirror and there it was hiding behind the thickness of my hair.

It was perched peacefully, its wings fluttering every now and then.

Streams of light pierced through its wings’ layers, casting shadows with shimmering highlights on my shoulder.

Sometimes the shadows would scare me but it was nice to not be alone.

I remember asking it to be my friend.

At age thirteen, it had grown almost to the size of my fist.

I began to resent it.

I tried hiding it, wearing my hair in its voluminous afro so people couldn’t see it.

I resented how dark its wings had become.

Its shadow no longer brought me peace.

I remember it asking me if we were still friends and I remember wishing it away every day.

It did nothing but sit there on the side of my neck yet I felt the energy drain out of me like I carried the weight of the world.

I felt faint.

Sometimes I pretended it didn’t exist, like the feeling on my neck was a fragment of my imagination.

Eventually, I decided to ignore its existence completely.

At age nineteen, it had grown to the size of my heart. It sat there in the same spot, unmoved.

It looked different, with broken wings and a faded color.

Its shadow looked tired.

I feared for its life.

It shed its cilia and lost one of its antennae.

Eventually, its wings ceased to flutter.

Its body went still.

It fell off my neck and onto my shoulder, unable to hold itself up anymore.

I picked it up and placed it on my palm.

I remember how beautiful it was.

The spot on my neck felt empty. It told me that all it ever wanted from me was my love.

I had never felt more alone.