You do something you should not do and you find something you should not find. And then, just like that, you know something you do not want to know.
The thing you know is a sticky cocoon. Each time you think about this thing, another thread wraps itself around you and pins you tight.
You go to sleep, knowing the thing you didn't want to know, and the black words of it traipse messily through your night and drag images behind them that you do not want to see. You dream thickly, both struggling under the weight of the thing and stuck in its web. Words on a screen are made of nothing, weightless. But these words are as heavy as plutonium, each one sinking into your chest where your black heart was, just yesterday, beating.
When you wake up, your heart is no longer coal. Compressed by the weight of all that you did not want to know, it has become a diamond, impenetrable and harder than steel.
The cocoon is gone, but you are still you. There are no butterflies here.