An iridescent, pearly butterfly flies past me
But its flight, unlike the butterfly itself, is not at all beautiful.
It staggers and stutters, as though it is being pulled down by some force,
Its wings are torn, broken fragments flying past in the breeze,
Pearly glitter left behind by a broken soul.
What had happened that something so beautiful had gone so wrong?
What had made this butterfly so fragile, so prone to breakage?
I had made it resilient, I was sure of it,
Yet here it was, disintegrating from the weight of its own existence.
I reach out and I touch it,
Let it rest on my hand as I look into its eyes,
Attempt to unravel the past.
Once this butterfly was bejewelled,
Covered in beautiful crested armour,
A way of protecting itself with the most unique shield.
This armour prevented it from becoming vulnerable,
Prevented the beautiful iridescent wings beneath
Society had condemned anybody different.
The boring brown butterflies, they didn’t need armour to protect their souls
Why, their souls were obvious, advertised on the outside.
You had been labelled as weird, taught from a very young age to repress your jewels.
And so that is what you did.
You swallowed each and every jewel till you were choking.
Yet the choking left you unperturbed.
You would go to any lengths just to fit in.
And so it was that you were left bare.
Stripped of your armour, you were left vulnerable.
The slightest rip, the slightest tear, and you would shatter,
Your peers made you feel like you were too much
Society made you feel like you were too much
But in doing so, they stripped you down to nothing.
Fragility springs forth when a butterfly feels forced to hide their too muchness.
This is what happened with you;
You were so uniquely beautiful, and yet you shed your beauty to fit in.
To hide your too muchness.
I, your creator, know better than anybody.
There is no such thing as too muchness.
Too muchness needs kindling, not repressing.
You ought to have learnt to channel the light of your too muchness
To shine just the right way through your jewel encrusted wings,
Thus breaking the bars of your own cage.
You could transcend without having to die.
But they make you feel like the only way to be yourself is through death.
And so you, the beautiful butterfly, crumble,
Leaving a trail of glitter.
You fall so hard that the impression you leave will be deeper than the grave that they dig for you.
They will herald you as a brilliant writer, a melancholic writer,
Your statue will be carved weeping,
When really there was no reason for you to be sad at all.
