It all starts with a worm.

Not a worm but a caterpillar,
though much like a worm;
the first burst of cries
after a long night
yelling ‘push!’,
a round face and soft pink lips
honey-brown skin
and wisps of hair curling at the crown.

Papillon her mother said,
cradling the fruit of her labor.

Like all good things,
the worm must be passed through fire for strength.

Papillon lived in a
world with no papa
where mama was never home
but worked to the bone
where one day she was suddenly all alone.

Mama had overworked.

They dressed baby in black
and told her not to cry
where was mama going?
and why?
it wasn’t until years later that Papillon understood death.

Death. That state a caterpillar must face to emerge a butterfly.
Death…that gleam in the eyes of every man she kept company.
Death that song forcing her to dance to another tragic melody.
Death, that black dress she wore to capture lust in many.
Death: her decision to break free from her cocoon’s captivity,

the thick red rolling down her arms,
the lifeless body of her tormentor laying on the ground.
a bloodied knife in hand.

She had never felt so beautiful.