They tickle somewhere up near my throat, swarming in what I’m sure must be a beautiful pattern of drawn out o’s. 

I feel my stomach lurch, not enjoying the tickle of the wings as they brush by my heart, sending adrenaline coursing through.

I take several long and slow breaths, trying to count to ten.

Realize that counting makes them fly faster, beating wings as if to say forget it, we are here and we are real, you can’t just breathe us away.

The gnawing begins lower, cousin to the beating. Feeling my stomach sink to get away from their urgent flutters, cramping. 

I rationalize. You do this a lot, it’s fine. It won’t be so bad. Statistics floating though my head, heavily weighted in favour, but still.

What if I’m that .001%? What if I’m the statistic? The lottery you don’t want to win? 

Sometimes too much knowledge is frightening. 

I wish to be kept in the dark, and just have butterflies for companions, 

beautiful in the shadows with their powder soft wings caressing my cheeks.