I ate me alive,

or it was them.

I don't remember anymore.

 

Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon,

I blossom into a teenager,

beautiful and soft.

 

My delicate wings beat against the new environment,

And other butterflies twitter around,

But they're screaming.

 

They say I am a moth,

and in that moment,

I am a moth.

 

Fat, and ugly, the wings now struggle to beat.

The heavier the slander, the harder it is to fly,

As I drift down toward the water.

 

Overwhelmed, frustrated, hurt.

I'm ugly, I'm fat,

I am a moth but...

 

I am also strong.

I can fly through the most difficult storms,

The A's on my report card ease the difficulty of flying.

 

I wonder...

How can someone be called "ugly"?

The abstract term should be undefinable.

 

It is undefinable.

I am beautiful,

my spirit can keep me afloat.

 

As I catch myself before the water of the pond,

I see my reflection.

I am a butterfly.

 

Nobody can tell me who I am except me.

The small flicker of confidence snowballs,

A mountain of snow to be my pedestal.

 

I can fly now. I am beautiful. I am powerful.

I am flawless because judging only defines the bully, not the victim.

They are the moths for their cruelty.

 

I am perfect for my independence.

I am perfect for my strength.

I am perfect for my kindnesses.

 

I am perfect for me.