my skin is a plaster made of a silky web cocoon, and i wonder when i will ever blossom to you. when will you notice that my blistered palms are attempting to go through the inflorescent cycle of turning into chrysanthemums? or am i going through natural decomposition turning back into the organic matter i was once before? to become a butterfly, to lift these chained feet off the ground and leave to somewhere where nobody knows my name. i could, perhaps, start this cycle all over again and succeed. this time, i could desert everything i know and make a placebo name and memories to scribble out the things that made me run for the hills.