Stomach butterflies. A colloquialism for the fluttery feeling in the stomach when a human is nervous.
The term is winsome in its own way, calling to mind an innocent scene of a girl smiling nervously yet adorably at the opportunity to talk to the object of her affections in the hallways of their secondary school. It is the picture of sweetness, completed by the idea that the girl has hundreds of butterflies flitting about inside her, graceful and beautiful.
If only that’s how I felt when I am nervous.
My butterflies are more like bats, rats with wings as Batman’s enemies call them. They don’t flit gracefully, they attempt to fly out of my abdomen, stretching their wings as far as they can go, scratching and nearly bursting out my throat.
If not flying, they sit heavily in the pit of my stomach, weighing me down like the ogre who was tricked into eating rocks instead of children (not that I have ever tried to eat children, or rocks for that matter).
And they don’t appear as I stand in the school hallway, naive and trusting. They occur when I am taking exams, growing and growling more and more the longer I take to complete the work. (And people wonder why I am such a fast test taker.)
When I see my crush I feel more full of words than wings, sick with all the things I wish to tell him, to hear him say to me.
It would be much more cute if they were butterflies.