Are you my butterfly? I have asked you that a thousand times. Do you think I found out you are a man? Guess what? Did I find out, I was thinking about it until I killed myself. We've been together for so long that it's a little too much to find out that you're a man. Or have I just been implying to myself, you are a woman, you are a woman. I don't know, I don't know, all I know is that you are my butterfly, the only prey in the web I've weaved for decades. And the only prey I hope to get into the net. So I ended up committing suicide in front of everyone, with your face, your dark eyebrows and yellow decals. I painted my face the way you looked in my mind, only to find that I could never be what you looked like, you are so graceful and beautiful. Your modesty, your desire to refuse and welcome, are all telling me. Meeting you is the luck of my life, the beauty that I can never find again in my life. So after your trial, I committed suicide. Why, is it because you discovered your true gender, is it because you have been deceived for so long, is it because you are ridiculed wherever you go after returning to China. No, no, neither. Without the butterfly, how can I continue to linger on in this world?
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