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Death of the Caterpillar

birth of the butterfly

By Kye EarleyPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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I lay decaying on a bed of roses,

porcelain skin crystallized and painted pink

by my family. They all dress in black,

my mother in her loosest dress, my father

in his only suit. They cried the day I left,

but two years later they mourn me.

My sister stomps her feet in denial, insisting

that the morgue made a mix-up and I’m just

a phone call away. I sit in front of her

confused, as she dials my number. I pick up

and she screams, calling me an

imposter. Impossible. Her sister is dead.

I stretch my new wings, showing off

how they glitter, flapping them to Taps

as my parents frown at me. I murdered

their daughter. My chrysalis was my casket,

and I am nothing more to them than a

reminder of who I am not.

There is nothing to drop in my grave

but the scab I broke out of, so the funeral

is canceled. A memorial service will be held

in my childhood bedroom, after which

I will be stuffed into an orange jumpsuit

and found guilty for the death of the caterpillar.

nature poetry
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About the Creator

Kye Earley

I'm a 23 year old creative. I write, act, make youtube videos (search CoffeeCat, you'll find me!). I also really really love cats. I do magic and tarot, so those themes sometimes slip into my work. Oh, and I'm secretly a mermaid.

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