This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Oxford Emory chapter.
Everyone has heard of butterflies.
Sailing on Persephone’s breath, they flutter golden dust
Prismatic scales so bright
You’d think kimono girls adorned their cloaks
Like bold mascara.
But launder away sheaths of heavy powder
Before metamorphosis painted its artistry,
Who remembers the tabula rasa?
O caterpillar, how long you’ve worked to get where you’re going.
Your humble stomach—is it really gluttony?
Why must the world tint you a sad dye?