I lie in a dry and quiet place
and think of those i’ve lost
I do not mourn them, instead
I wonder why anyone is still here
I writhe in my own chrysalis
i hope?
but i cannot fathom my accompaniment
The questions are too self-focused
The answer is, because they want to be
But i wonder if i’ve tricked them,
That i’m not a butterfly waiting to be freed,
i’m a spider and they’re caught in my web
Wrapped them in silver threads of things that i’m not
coated in the stickiness of pity
I am a thing
I was created to be a thing, and a thing i always shall be
When i emerge it will be from a shiny silver pod
I tried to merge myself with beauty,
But the result will be an abhorrence
I’ll be as filthy and futile as i’ve always been