Literature
Her Mind
To her, they weren't thoughts, they were butterflies.
Butterflies caught inside Glass jars with golden lids.
They sat upon rows and rows of shelves that filled her inner mindspace, each one of them neatly labeled for what they were.
And I swear they were the most beautiful butterflies I had ever seen.
Each one different but united in their beauty.
When she wanted to think, she would release one of them into the world, knowing they would come back when she called.
And her memories, they were bubbles, blown into the air by a great machine. But these bubbles never popped, they just hovered ominously over her, growing and shrinking in size.