evolving from expectations.

i know my story is to be told, but will i be the one to tell the tale, or will my shadow be the one to stand in the way?

a fear to face my demons keeps my feet shuffling with my eyes strained shut in a dark hallway, afraid of the inevitable step and repeat that happens below. my brain allows a sliver of light to peek through, but when my arms reach out to embrace the moment, it’s only then that i recognize that it is merely a reflection, rather than a source. which way is right? was i ever supposed to move forward?

this may explain my fascination with the moth. endless evolutions in order to adapt. the countdown to death ticks only as fast as time progresses, yet it still finds purpose- to survive.

take the american dagger moth for example. one appeared right at my feet, inching itself across the concrete pavement to a nearby bush. bent down to take a closer look, i went to reach out, only to pull back as i noticed the four, sharp, black eyelash bristles that stood straight up in a means of defense. afraid at the idea that i wouldn’t be the last foot she came across, i scooped her up on leaf and quickly took her inside. as she chomped on the leaf i had ripped from her home tree, i turned my focus to learning about her kind.

i wish i was a butterfly. royal blue scales that shine and shimmer in the sun. they even love you once your dead, preserving your vessel in a clear glass case as a token of memorabilia, a moment of what once was.

today, i am learning that it’s okay to be a moth. when i learned to crawl, they found me fascinating. they scooped me up on a leaf and gawked at me for what felt like eternity. but as nature takes it’s course, i defied the odds of the path they expected me to take. i was once so beautiful, what happened? i adapted.

vibrant colors shift to neutral tones, eyes bloom on the back of my wings. some scientists say it’s to protect. others say it’s to deflect. i treat them like healed scars from the past- i know not to make the same mistake twice. and even though it hurts right now, i’d rather spend my last minutes tasting the fruit in the garden than ever end up on someone’s shelf.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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