Similis Papilioni

 

I see my reflection on my computer screen. I’m covered

with a bouquet of flowers, roses, berries, purple buds waiting

to bloom. The bouquet sits above butterflies resting

on top oranges, feasting on its juice, long tongues snaking

into the pulp. My screen darkens the image and I pop

through. My face is hidden by blossoms, my body by wings.

But if I move my head, tilt it to the side, I see my eyes poking

out. It reminds me of what I’m told to be: beautiful,

gentle, still, before I burst through my delicate shell and fly.