THE COCOON

The wings were hers. The cocoon came back anyway.

In an ideal world, transformation would be beautiful.

A butterfly. A shimmer. A triumph.

But she knew better.

No one talked about the agony. The gorging before stillness. The violent internal undoing. The shedding of legs. The war inside the skin to build wings.

Shhh. We don’t speak of that.

We only praise the emergence. The sun-kissed reveal. The perfect pose at the moment of freedom.

She wondered—was she doing it wrong?

Was her effort too small? Her heart too reluctant? Was she broken?

Every turn into the wormhole of change brought new chaos, new tools she didn’t yet own.

Hadn’t she already learned this lesson? Apparently not.

No matter.

The chisel was in her hand. Her knuckles bruised. Knees aching.

She broke through.

Finally.

Elation. Wings.

Only to watch them harden, then curl. Then cocoon her again.