Butterfly

I wake inside this husk of silk

as if the world stitched it too small.

The walls breathe against me,

whispering shapes I should take

when I finally tear them open.

My own wings worry me.

They shine too loudly in the dark,

a brightness I never asked for—

colors that feel like they belong

to braver creatures.

I press my body to the chrysalis,

feeling its thin certainty,

wondering if the world outside

measures wingspan

like worth.

When I move, the chamber tightens—

a reminder that even softness

can become a cage

when I believe I shouldn’t fill it.

I imagine the sky waiting,

holding its endless mirror.

What if it looks at me

and sees a mistake of pattern,

a flutter that never learned

how to be lovely?

But the day comes

when the husk splits

in spite of my trembling.

Light spills in—

gentle, patient, knowing.

And I climb out,

my wings unfolding

like hesitant confessions,

each vein a quiet argument

for existing.

The air lifts me—

not because I am flawless,

but because wings,

even uncertain ones,

were made to be lifted.

So I rise,

not believing yet,

but learning

that the sky does not ask me

to be beautiful—

only to begin.