Metamorphosis
To exist is to be free
Open your wings, fly

They say a butterfly cannot see its own wings,
But I can—
The mirror shows me that I’m a moth, not a butterfly.
As if it’s a cruel joke on me.
I stare and stare at the mirror,
Hoping and praying that it’s not how it looks.
I hope and pray that nobody can see me,
But they do—
Because that's the truth
But they do—
Not with admiration, but disgust and pity.

I spy on the little girl.
Her hair was filled with flowers,
her eyes, bright as the sun.
She had love to give—
and gave it freely:
to the old man by the sea,
the woman grieving her son,
the butterfly with a broken wing.

I spy on the little girl.
The flowers in her hair have dried,
her eyes now quiet as the night.
She still has love to give.
But the old man drifted with the tide,
the woman lost her mind,
and no one wants what's left.

I spy on the little girl.
I reach through the forest,
step into the clouds.
I will hold her hand.
I still have love to give—
anyway.

Do you know
how butterflies come to life?
It’s more frightening
than you might think.

Born crawling
a caterpillar,
close to the ground
naïve to the sky
simply existing,
tasting the world
leaf by leaf.

And then
it begins.
A hush inside the body,
a quiet undoing.
Behaviors shift,
instincts sharpen,
the soul sketches its wings in secret.
The old self unravels.

Did you know
that little caterpillar
melts into goo?
Not a creature in waiting
just formless, floating cells.
And from that
a butterfly emerges,
grown entirely
from what was already there.

I’ve been stuck in that goo
the nowhere between
trauma and metamorphosis,
neither alive nor lost,
just suspended.

But this summer
brought tears as ink,
and from the scribbled ache
came liberating wings
fragile but certain,
drawn from silence.

I've started flying.
But I still glance down
when I shouldn’t
afraid that my pride and joy
will be mistaken for arrogance.
Yet I’m proud
proud that I can love again.
Proud that flying
feels so familiar.

I like to land
booping noses of dogs
showing up beside strangers
on quiet benches.
To hear their voices
for the very first time
to sense the tremble
of their own becoming.
And when I look,
I see it:
a shimmer in their stillness,
a whisper in their pause.
The butterfly
still hidden in its goo.

And I hope
they’ll pass it on
this softness,
this seeing.

That ripple we call
the butterfly effect

I wish you could see me
More than my gaze,
More than my smile
I wish you could hear more than these words
That I’m speaking out loud

Your eyes wander up and down slowly against my silhouette
Yearning my embrace, craving my warmth
Just to fill your thirst with your empty glass
Eyes that lust - dress me up in lies.
Gouge them out and throw them away, please - If you can not, meet me in purity

Haunted by tomorrow’s hopes,
I wish you could see me.
Not just idolize or fantasize
I am not your projection
I am not your sacred prize
I wish - you could see me.

Immaturity loves Shiny objects,
Because that’s what beings are to IT - objects, right?

IT caught a Butterfly and caged her in,
Just to boast: “I touched her Wing.”
But never asked how Light is fed,
Or why the Stars sleep in her head

IT wants to say IT once touched Divinity,
But not honor it, nor grow with it

In seeking to cage the Butterfly,
You lost the chance to learn
how to tend your own Light
in the presence of one
Who carried Sun in her wings

I can never be enough,
Or fully myself.
You want me to limit my presence for your liking,
Need to be careful not to shine too bright, Otherwise you’ll go running to the shadows. There’s the comfort zone..
Did I scare you?

“Too much” - what does that even mean?

Perhaps it’s just the trembling scream
Of egos fearing what they lack,
So they attack or turn their backs,
Since her fullness can only be tolerated in fragments.


If you want to stay in your comfort zone,
By all means go ahead, regress.
But don’t expect me to conform.

I don’t operate for likes,
Or to have people understanding me anyway. I know all wisdom seekers were also once never understood,
So I don’t expect you to.
But nobody told me how lonely
This path of Truth was to be walked upon.

This is the ache of the mystic,
The healer, the truth teller
The one who feels so much, Sees so deeply
Yet must often walk
Without being truly met

Still…

I wish you could See Me.