A quiet catastrophe begins.
The caterpillar, soft-bodied wanderer,
unthreads itself
from the inside out.
No gentle sleep—
But a dissolution,
a flood of enzymes
breaking every known shape
into memory-soup.
This is not survival.
This is a sacrifice.
This is trust in annihilation.
Within that rich, primordial broth,
lie imaginal discs—
seeds of wings,
blueprints of eyes that have never seen sky,
antennae attuned to the wind’s whisper.
They do not guess.
They remember
W
hat they were meant to become.
And somehow—
even as the old self liquefies—
a thread remains.
A flicker of memory,
a trace of yesterday’s hunger,
a taste of a certain leaf
lingering like a ghost
through all that unmaking.
When the chrysalis shivers open
and the new body unfurls—
painted, fragile, free—
it is not just a new form.
It is a resurrection.
A creature
who has lived
two lives
within one skin.
Who has died
without leaving.
And flown
from the ruins of itself.
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