It boils in the pits of your stomach, a genocide, a massacre of the butterflies she once gave you; the smell expelling from them rottens your thoughts.
Thoughts that haunt your conscience: 'Where was she, really? ' 'She was with him, don't be so naive'.
You tell yourself to trust her you have no evidence, where is your proof? Intuition begs to differ you could feel it when you kiss her, something strange you can not see, something called jealousy!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem