June Bug Baby

Let me go Bug Catcher. I know that this summer endeavor was once a mere game, but my poor wings are warping, my legs are growing tried, my mind is becoming increasingly frantic. Please, I ask so kindly, but you seem to not listen, as if you do not understand the words I say. Bug Catcher, you have already decided that the LadyBug is for you. That you prefer her gentle, slow movements, her predictability to my spontaneous outbursts, my frazzled movements and random actions. That's fine. I will be okay without the caging & tugging, the poking & prodding that you had me endure. I will survive without the hostility and roughness that you showed me when you got pricked my the spikes lining my legs. I never meant to hurt you, but I repeatedly told you not to touch me and you did and when I drew a drop of blood, you then turned and drew a waterfall of tears. I apologized, but you drove the knife in deep and with every tear that stained the front of my shirt, you twisted a little more. So go ahead, choose the LadyBug, I will stand back. But please Bug Catcher, if you would rather have a LadyBug then why keep me on this string? This chain like string that you attached to my leg so long ago is now chaffing and rubbing. I fear that soon it will wear away all of the skin, and start its' work on the bone. June Bugs are always easily caught and kept, but when it is time to let them go, you should gingerly untie that string and set them free. Instead you keep my in your pocket, out of sight from your Mamma and LadyBug and other Bug Catcher Friends, and only when you feel the time is convenient you pull me out. I then plan my escape and start to fly, but in one tug you have me pulled back to you. What am I to do? Chew through my own leg? Cut it off with a saw? Let me go Bug Catcher, let me go search for someone who will appreciate the differences of my June Bug self. Cut the string, cut the caring act, cut the shit. I may be a June Bug, but I am not stupid. I understand you and the way you think. If I remember correctly, you caught me the same way you caught the LadyBug. Before me it was a Butterfly. You had her on the palm of your hand, sipping up sweet honey, but quickly you grew bored of her dazzling colors and patterns, and so with her being crushed in one palm, you used your free hand to snag me from the air mid-flight. Then, when you had the string secured around my leg and you knew I would not be getting away, you let her go. But the Butterfly is a soft creature, her wings were now crumpled and torn, but she complained none. Instead she gently left. But I am no Butterfly. I am a June Bug. So when you caught this LadyBug with me still in your other hand, I did not take nicely. I squirmed and I stung and I pinched. I left your palm a little bloody. In return what did you do? You let me think I was free to leave. So I started off on my journey with a rucksack full of heartache, but off I went anyway. When I was ten feet from you, the string was tugged hard. Once again I was sitting on your palm. But she was still in your other, and she was still what you preferred. Please Bug Catcher, let me go. A pocket is no place for a June Bug. A two foot radius is no life for a June Bug. Please Bug Catcher, let me go.