twenty

 

One thousand four hundred days of clawing out of my cocoon 

waiting for that bright wings to envelop me 

so that I can finally call myself fully developed—someone with a purpose

but I have already seen the seven thousand three hundred possibilities that I can be. 

I do not want to be a butterfly, 

existing for merely 30 days, 

a fleeting life, a sigh, a blink

who sucks up flowers just to exist. 

But I also do not want to be a caterpillar, 

crawling, and expecting metamorphosis

thinking that I have to be a butterfly just to be pretty. 

I can be wrapped in any shade of green, 

people can be afraid of me, 

but it will never make me ugly. 

It has been seven hundred ninety-four days

since I broke the glass that hinders me from being me. 

And the plastic that has covered me until I cannot breathe? 

has been floating away into the sea, 

toxic as it is. 

Seven hundred ninety-four days of embracing all those scars 

—that have always been hideous but also intricately fine, 

of burying shadows left by my past lives, 

of following trails but also making my own way.

Seven hundred ninety-four days of accepting that I can just be here—at this moment

without any clothing, without reason, 

until I am ready to explore other gardens. 

Two decades of inhaling stories, 

yet the world has never heard all of mine. 

A decade of building walls because I want to be invincible, 

but now I just want to frame my fragile state, 

and hang it beside my bed.