what of this beating heart,
suspended in my chest,
nourishing itself,
splitting skin like larva,
shedding its layers over again,
expanding into something ripe and unseen,
then nestling inward.
what of this beating heart,
swathed inside a wild silken cocoon
of her own making,
alchemizing wounds,
transforming her old self,
hidden tissues and limbs,
quivering and pulsing,
work, being, done.
what of this beating heart,
who spends years
encased in growth,
finally splitting her chrysalis,
wings soft and crumpled,
dangling while the blood flows,
unfolding but the emerging is slow,
because
how?
what of this beating heart,
suspended in my chest,
who spreads her wings,
realizing the one thing
she can do is fly.
In search of soft landings
and nectar, innately aware
of how fleeting the dance,
it’s a lifetime in minutes.
And isn’t that enough?
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