too often we see the battered bodies
of childhood or teenagedom.
sacrificed on the pyre,
in order to light a burning blaze to a rosy future.
set them alight, work them to the bone,
hoping that you will be transfigured when you pass through the door
to adulthood.
and they never mention that it's all a lie:
that tearing yourself to pieces does not mean you will blossom
more beautifully
that wearing down the colorful edges of shapes that do not fit into rigid holes
leaves you with ripped out wings that you can never get back.
you think that this time is only good for what comes after it?
that golden days are only good as memories or funny stories?
you think that growing up means getting better,
evolving as it were
reaching for better things.
and if that's true, then it makes sense to throw the skinny body on the fire
let the blood out for the gods of adulthood
tell yourself that all the work,
that all the pain,
will be worth it
it has to be worth it
you breathe,
when tears stain your cheeks and papers swirl
like a drowning wave of expectations,
that you can never be good enough for.
But when you finally trudge up the mountain to lay down on the alter
expecting someone different to rise out of the brokenness
the gods will only laugh
because:
the person who you hope will benefit from all of this,
the future you,
is nothing but a fantasy.
and you are broken, bruised, and battered,
and must struggle down the hill, alone.
we are not butterflies.
we do not change our shape.
we cannot run from what we put ourselves through
we can only bear it.