anonymous
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Caterpillars
When I was very small my mother and I collected caterpillars.
I would feel them leathery and small and vulnerable.
As they climbed over my fingers and covered my hands in shimmering silk.
And watch them as they slowly searched for perches on which to change.
When they found a suitable place they would hang down and shed their skin.
Their bright green insides would crystallize and then they would wait.
For weeks.
And weeks.
Until one day they broke through their shimmering prisons.
They would slowly, very slowly climb into the sun.
Catch their breaths
And fly away.
When I was very small I would sleep with the caterpillars.
I always wondered if any had wandered into me as I slept.
And made their homes there, eating soft tissue until the moment they
Shed their too-tight skin and in the safety of my body let their insides crystalize.
If after weeks and weeks I would have butterflies inside me.
Which slowly, very slowly, climbed out of their crystal prisons.
But couldn’t find the sun.
Caterpillars II
Sometimes I itch to shed my two tight skin.
Sometimes my fingers fumble on dress zippers and as I
Struggle to escape the folds of fabric the zipper snags on yielding skin.
Sometimes I think maybe I can sneak out through the tear that zipper left.
Maybe that’s why
I keep wearing dresses.
Other times I want to metamorphosize.
I want all of my insides to turn into goop so that in that slushy pink mess my
Ribs and
My tits and
My eyelashes will melt and after weeks and weeks I’ll crash through
The thin membrane that separates me from the world and
Slowly, very slowly climb out of my peculiar prison
Into the sun.
And finally catch
My breath.
Elements Magazine 