They liked me best
when I was still.
when I was still.
When I was quiet.
Predictable.
Pinned politely to the leaf
they handed me.
Predictable.
Pinned politely to the leaf
they handed me.
Look, they said
such a good caterpillar.
So calm.
So normal.
such a good caterpillar.
So calm.
So normal.
They mistook stillness
for comfort.
They mistook silence
for peace.
for comfort.
They mistook silence
for peace.
They never noticed
the thread.
the thread.
How I wrapped it around myself
day after day
layer after layer
of swallowed stims,
of practiced eye contact,
of smiles that fit like borrowed shoes.
day after day
layer after layer
of swallowed stims,
of practiced eye contact,
of smiles that fit like borrowed shoes.
They called it maturity.
Adaptation.
Good behavior.
Adaptation.
Good behavior.
But it was only silk.
And inside it
I was not resting.
I was not resting.
I was disappearing.
A cocoon is not a gentle place.
It is not sleep.
It is a body
turning on itself.
turning on itself.
Enzymes waking like quiet storms,
melting muscle and memory,
digesting the shape
others insisted was me.
melting muscle and memory,
digesting the shape
others insisted was me.
Caterpillar becomes
a thick, nameless broth
a thick, nameless broth
legs, habits, expectations,
every “should”
dissolving
into soup.
every “should”
dissolving
into soup.
It is painful.
It is humiliating.
It is being told
your old self is dying
and having to answer:
your old self is dying
and having to answer:
good.
Because you cannot become
what you are
while still protecting
what you were told to be.
what you are
while still protecting
what you were told to be.
So you eat it.
Every rule.
Every mask.
Every small, careful version of yourself.
Every mask.
Every small, careful version of yourself.
You swallow it all
until the only thing left
is the blueprint
they could never reach.
until the only thing left
is the blueprint
they could never reach.
And then
something impossible
begins knitting itself together.
begins knitting itself together.
Not the creature they remember.
Not the polite one.
Not the quiet one
they felt so comfortable loving.
they felt so comfortable loving.
What climbs out
is strange.
is strange.
It will not sit still.
It will not behave.
It does not stay
where it is placed.
It will not behave.
It does not stay
where it is placed.
Butterflies are restless things.
Always moving.
Always wandering.
Always wandering.
They do not understand
the concept
of staying in one place
just because someone prefers it.
the concept
of staying in one place
just because someone prefers it.
And they are odd creatures.
Some grow false eyes
on their wings
watching from behind.
on their wings
watching from behind.
Some have furry little faces
like tiny beasts
that should not belong
to something so delicate.
like tiny beasts
that should not belong
to something so delicate.
They drink from mud.
From rot.
From places people wrinkle their noses at.
From rot.
From places people wrinkle their noses at.
Nothing about them
is what the audience expected.
is what the audience expected.
The watchers are disappointed.
This is not
the caterpillar
they knew.
the caterpillar
they knew.
This one flutters too much.
Laughs too loud.
Moves in strange patterns
through the air.
Laughs too loud.
Moves in strange patterns
through the air.
This one eats the wrong things,
loves the wrong rhythms,
refuses to crawl back
onto the leaf
they provided.
loves the wrong rhythms,
refuses to crawl back
onto the leaf
they provided.
They say:
You were easier before.
But butterflies
cannot return to soup.
cannot return to soup.
And they cannot go back
to pretending
their wings are only legs
that forgot how to behave.
to pretending
their wings are only legs
that forgot how to behave.
They were never meant
to be comfortable.
to be comfortable.
They were meant
to fly.
to fly.
