To: The Butterfly

To Be Opened: When It Has Become an Autobiography

 

Dear Butterfly,

 

I have an image of the woman I hope to become

I am not her yet

But I am trying

 

This woman sleeps through summer

Getting suntanned and freckled

Rising only to kiss the hottest part of the day

She comes alive in autumn

Wearing gusts of wind around her shoulders

They say her smile reminds you

Of falling leaves

The ones that seem to make up their mind

To jump from the trees, arms outspread

Descending willingly

 

When this woman has insecurities

She folds them into brown paper and drops them

In the bottom of vases overflowing with flowers

She wills herself to take them as nutrients

And to bloom

She reminds herself, that while flowers are beautiful

They are also fragile

There is nothing wrong with suddenly choosing to sprout branches

And become a tree

She must remember

Oaks take longer to grow than lilies

 

Some nights she is fierce

But she never lets her tongue burn long before she spits it out

And even those nights, she still wishes

On stars

On eyelashes

On times on the clock, on traditions, on words, on love,

… on you

 

She is not the kind of woman who is left crying in a car

When this woman opens her mouth to sob

She breathes in passion and inspiration

She replaces shallow, broken breaths

With all the good things she has known

She inhales until her heart is a parking lot after a heavy rain

It is damp, it is sparkling, she is at peace

Because she chooses this way of breathing, she can exhale forgiveness

She made up her mind long ago to only cry when she needs to fill her own bath

 

This woman is wet clay

Molding herself into what she wants

She is in no hurry, for it changes every day

She realized long ago that no mold will suffice

This woman does not punish herself

For allowing other hands to smooth out her rough edges

To soften does not always mean to become weaker

She knows she can always return to the kiln

She is still finding her best shape

 

I have an image of the woman I hope to become

I am not her yet

But I am trying

 

Signed, The Caterpillar