You are the sick little butterfly wrapped around my trachea. Your sickness has spread to unmentionable places because there is no real way of knowing where it has gone. Hardening pieces inside of me. I won’t allow it any longer. I’m sorry you must go, like a lost and forlorn lover, but this is for the best. I’ll think of you and know where you once lived. And the scar that you leave behind, like a child lashing out, will remain noticeable for everyone to see. A mark others might understand at first glance, but some may never know. Not the mark of a tiger’s claw, it was something much more delicate.
Other possible title names: Goodbye, butterfly. or Goodbye, Thyroid. I think I’ll stick with “Goodbye”.
I was trying not to be too dramatic, but I guess that’s kind of how I am. I’m not sure I like the “lost and forlorn lover” part. I like the forlorn lover part, but not really the lost part. I’ll have to think on that. Anyway, that’s that.