Butterfly Effect

I always hate it.

I see the same thing.

It’s wrong. She is wrong.

She has just been a cover all along.

But she is mine. My image.

My true self, a mirage.

Plastic surgery is a bit of a different task.

It’s not simply removing a mask.

Too young, they say,

Too pure, they tell,

Too soon, they insist.

But I’m... me?

Right?

Is that ... alright?

That person in the glass is just a face.

I’m told I’m such a disgrace.

I like to think of myself as a caterpillar.

I simply haven’t become a butterfly yet.

But they don’t know that I’m still trapped in that cocoon.

They think I should fly, just as they do.

They tell me it’s a phase, what am I, the moon?

I know I’ll never be the same as you.

I can’t fly.

I don’t know how.

But they make me... why?

What else can I do?

So she pretends she can.

Flying without wings is awfully tiring.