Prose

  I feel like I'm so close to happiness. Like I'm a butterfly who's been too big for their chrysalis for so long they're just aching to escape it. But a chrysalis is not a prison. The light is coming in through these transparent walls but the first crack hasn't formed because though I have wings they're not quite strong enough to break through yet.   I need more time, but I feel so desperate to finally fly. For moths or butterflies, cacoon or chrysalis, metamorphasis isn't meant to take this long. Maybe I just need to find my strength, maybe this accurate modern cliche is lame, and a perfect reminder that sometimes you just have to push through.