Poem: Darwellian Butterfly


Darwellian Butterfly

Of course, I have changed.
That is the whole point
of living,
to survive this odd world
of flux and flame,
to be Darwellianin the adapting,
soul soft as a butterfly’s wing,
and strong as a stone,
a creature you created
out of the remnants of your fear,
tender and fragile,
so close to broken,
but with teeth sharp as razors,
waiting for your return.

About this poem

I am constantly surprised when abusers and bullies (of all stripes) complain that their victims, the few who escape, have changed.

Of course they have changed. It is that, or die.


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