I am a butterfly, half released from my chrysalis. (She is actually a moth, but butterflies are much more loved and that is all she wishes to be. Did you know that some moths can avoid being echolocated by bats because, at just the right moment, they click their organs? She thinks this is beautiful too, but it is a quiet thought.)
Chrysalides are made from a butterfly’s past life; it’s the husk of a caterpillar that houses the change of its lifetime, but for moths it’s different. A moth’s cocoon is a silk wrapping of its own creation: a self-made home. I think I am equally stuck in either metaphorical stage of metamorphosis. I am noise, I am color. A contradiction of exoskeleton and jelly. Born in the night, I almost died. I almost died. But here I am. (She thinks of death, but it is life that consumes her. Maybe when the sun rises and her wings dry, she can fly. However, now in the night, she is still healing from the ordeals of change.