Skin Chrysalis – A Poem

It was the

same every year.

The day after

my birthday, a

thin crust would

begin to form

on my skin.

Throughout the year,

it would grow

tougher, as if

made from stone

or marble. It

would grow thicker,

It would become

more difficult to

move as the

year passed on,

harder to move

my body as

I wanted to.

The evening before

my birthday, the

crust would begin

to crack and

break, flaking off

and falling to

the floor. I

would sweep the

pile of dust

up off the

floor and place

it in a

small cloth bag.

I don’t know

why I kept

the dust, why

I held onto

1. It felt

right somehow, like

I was expected

1. This year

was different. The

layer of thickness

that covered my

skin began to

break and crack

the evening before

my birthday. However,

when the shell

that had made

a mould of

my body began

to break, it

slipped free to

reveal something different

about my body.

I had wings.

They were tattooed

along my skin

but if I focused

on flying, they

slipped out of

my skin and

would flutter in

the air and

I would rise

up a few

feet. When I

didn’t want to

fly, they would

rest once again

along my skin,

simple lines of

ink. I panicked,

wondering what was

wrong with me.

I gathered up

my cloth bags

of dust and

brought them to

a wise woman.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong with me?”

She looked at

the tattooed wings,

ran her fingers

along them. I

made the wings

flutter for her.

She then looked

at the bags

of dust. I

looked at her.

“This was not made from a shell as you describe.”

“What was it then?”

She looked at

me with eyes

that were a

deep, dark brown.

“It was a chrysalis.”

Her words sent

my wings fluttering

anew. It seemed

that they agreed

with her assessment.

“I don’t understand. It’s always been just a shell before. Why now?”

She put her

fingers in the

most recent cloth

bag and took

them out. Pinched

between her fingers

was a glittering

powder. She let

it trickle from

her fingers and

it glittered in

the soft light.

“Would a shell produce this? As to why now? Well, the butterfly goes through several stages. The Chrysalis is just one of them.”

I shook my

head in bewilderment.

“Why now?”

Her brown eyes

saw so much.

They saw right

into the core

of my heart.

“Because you were ready.”

“I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.”

She laughed lightly

and the sound

was calming instead

of being jarring.

“Isn’t it obvious? What does a butterfly do when it leaves it’s crysalis?”

I shook my

head, not knowing

how to respond.

She simply said:

“It flies.”