Death of the Caterpillar
birth of the butterfly
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.
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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