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In my dream I look down at my chest and see through myself. I am made of golden strands, woven together. I am threadbare like linen in sunlight. Within me is a heavy tangle, and when I look close, I see a caterpillar, winding the threads around itself from the tail up, into a luminous cocoon.
The elders at butterfly house say that at 16 years old, my metamorphosis is overdue. I’m anxious about it: about being a late bloomer, about the process itself — most of all about being different from the others at school. Missing two weeks for some mystical butterfly transformation doesn’t help my worries about being left out. In the afternoons I used to go to the woods with a big gang of friends, climbing trees or old buildings, making up games... Read more
