As the poor creature’s orange innards spilled over the tarmac, all I could remember was how you used to stomp on caterpillars when we were children just to make sure they didn’t become butterflies, and that my ugly, fat little body was still boudn in my own chrysallus, shuttered off from the world and yet still not nearly as safe as I thought behind my wall of silk, and that any day you could come along and pluck me down, and my armor would crackle under the immense weight of your converse sneaker.

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