Looking backwards, I ask myself, “What was I, before I was caught?”
I wasn’t a butterfly. This cocoon isn’t going to magically transform me into something beautiful and liberated.
I watch through the gaps, others with wings, whose lives are vibrant and magnificent.
I visited them today, crawled out, and flapped around pretending to be one of them, briefly. I felt joy, and hope, and remembered myself, until it was time to return.
She saw her future unravelling,
consumed by him completely
not a trace of hope
for her ghost
his words tattooed on her flesh,
cutting out an old woman’s shape
binding himself to her
he used her younger self to sew up his damaged life
until her own was frayed beyond recognition
any thought of escape severed
so she dreamed of dying in her sleep
released from unintentional cruelty
The old woman slipped out of existence
Thanking herself silently.
Words Becoming 