This is the talk.  This is an intervention.  This is your conscience speaking.  The one who lives inside you and watches you all the time.  We are all here.

What are you doing?  There is this roiling in your stomach again that we do not like.  There is a flutter in your heart that only came out when that other disaster is happening.  There is a panic in your head again, a smokiness, an unsure quality that we do not like the taste of, or the feel of.  There are goosebumps most times as well, what is this?  Have we not been through enough?

And you are lying again.  You say that this is not what it looks like, but what else can it be than what it looks like it is.  There is no metaphor here, this is what it is.  Thinly veiled as the thing you are trying for it not be, but it is, and you may lie to them, you may lie to others, but you cannot lie to us, we are the council inside your head, and we are calling bullshit on your lies.

You say you are strong, but child you are not.  You are weak like old thread, like a filament of cobweb in a dark corner of a musty room.  You are weak and you no match against the butterflies that invade.  The ones whose wings can do so much damage just by one single twitch.  And it is a veritable army of butterflies that is coming your way it is.

You will either stop this madness immediately or we will not hesitate to shut down and leave you, and you know what happened the last time we did that, the last time you let yourself be consumed by butterflies.

It was like a fire, it was.