Larva

I want to run out into the night, barefleshed and beautiful, coverd in the leprosy of everything that has ever made me me. I want to run into the dark, as far as my weak and scarred legs can take me, atrophied by my love-hate-gluttony, by my unteared goodbye with everything that made me think I could fly. I want to run until I collapse, matchstick legs breaking beneath me, rib cage shattering gently on soft grass, so sound but the quiet ‘shush, shush’ of a teasing wind in a tree that’s lost half its leaves just this past week.

I want my body to quiver and break apart, to leave fragments of myself in the soil. And I’ll rise from the dawn from the broken bits of my bones and skin and tendons, fresh in the dew, beautiful and pure in the dawn. No butterfly but something fresh and clean and wonderful.