You’ve been pretending to be a butterfly
All your life.
When you performed Lady Macbeth—
“Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”—
The students: “Are you an actor?”
I am.
“I am not.”
When you were young:
“Your sister is pretty, but you are prettier.”
So you were.
When you were studying:
“You are smart, but your sister is smarter.”
So it was.
Shakespeare: “The world’s a stage.”
Let it be your stage.
You stand under the spotlight,
Audience invisible past the glare.
They hold their breath.
When it is time,
You tear open the cocoon,
Peel back the shroud you have been hiding behind.
Already, they are applauding.
Cheering before you even step out
Because they know what they will see.
When the last layer is stripped away
And your wings,
Glistening in the light,
Unfurl,
Silence.
What they thought would be
Delicate and delightful
Are leathery and gray.
Scales coat your body.
Not fragile scales damaged by a single touch.
These are plates of armor.
Your hands and feet are not dainty and gentle,
Designed to tickle upturned faces when you land.
They are claws,
Designed to tear flesh from bone.
A woman screams.
A man says, “Call the police!”
Someone stands, flailing wildly to calm others.
“Don’t be afraid! It is merely an act.”
“It is not,” you say.
Then you devour him.
Never mind.
You know you are perfect,
And the other dragons think so, too.
All your life.
When you performed Lady Macbeth—
“Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”—
The students: “Are you an actor?”
I am.
“I am not.”
When you were young:
“Your sister is pretty, but you are prettier.”
So you were.
When you were studying:
“You are smart, but your sister is smarter.”
So it was.
Shakespeare: “The world’s a stage.”
Let it be your stage.
You stand under the spotlight,
Audience invisible past the glare.
They hold their breath.
When it is time,
You tear open the cocoon,
Peel back the shroud you have been hiding behind.
Already, they are applauding.
Cheering before you even step out
Because they know what they will see.
When the last layer is stripped away
And your wings,
Glistening in the light,
Unfurl,
Silence.
What they thought would be
Delicate and delightful
Are leathery and gray.
Scales coat your body.
Not fragile scales damaged by a single touch.
These are plates of armor.
Your hands and feet are not dainty and gentle,
Designed to tickle upturned faces when you land.
They are claws,
Designed to tear flesh from bone.
A woman screams.
A man says, “Call the police!”
Someone stands, flailing wildly to calm others.
“Don’t be afraid! It is merely an act.”
“It is not,” you say.
Then you devour him.
Never mind.
You know you are perfect,
And the other dragons think so, too.
