the semi metamorphosis
it's like knives have sliced your skin to ribbons. gashes in your back, blood mixing with the stale air.
and from the two gaping holes, a pair of moth's wings. dusty and tattered, reflected through the cracked mirror.
this is... strange. unexpected, to say the least.
your feet tap lightly against the thinning carpet in the hallway. the dying light bulbs, flickering softly, have never seemed so beautiful.
there's a fruit bowl, chipped china, sitting on the kitchen table. you sift through it. bananas and apples, oranges and kiwi. in the darkest depths, you discover a rotten pear, squishy and spattered with dark spots.
there's a tangy aroma wafting off of it, sweetness bordering on rot. the flesh melts into your hands, and you can't help yourself. the hunger in your stomach comes in short, insistent bursts.
the pear brushes your lips. the layer around it is waxy.
the juices crash into your tongue. it's the best thing you've ever eaten.
the pear is gone too soon. your attention diverts to the door outside. maybe there's... light out there.
your fingers are delicate, wisps of bone. you have to choke the handle with your grip.
you are weak, paper blowing through the wind.
the outside world has never seemed so alive. your senses have magnified. waves of color and sound and smells crash over you.
there's a buzzing noise. it's close, invading your ears. you can't decipher where it's coming from, but it's close. you spin in circles, scanning the sky.
when they find dying rays of the sun, crawling and weaving into the sharp blue sky, you are temporarily distracted.
you used to despise the sun. how it dug into your flesh and wrinkled it, how it scattered you with angry burns. it made the air scorching, like it was made of invisible flames.
but now, it is a luminous beacon- of light, of hope. now, you can comprehend its symbolism. what it represents, what it truly is. you are drawn to it. the pull is inevitable.
the buzzing. it's from your wings. you had forgotten about them, adjusted to their weight. your wings are aching to fly, toward the sun.
at that thought, you begin to hover, over the patch of dead grass that was needling your bare feet. your wings flap slowly, twisting and morphing under the weight of the air. they are brittle, and the scales that encase the lace and tulle inside slough off, floating to the ground like volcanic ash.
it's awkward, at the beginning. but, practice makes perfect.
you need to start your journey now. the sooner you reach the sun, the better.
you will die happy, bathing in its light.
the higher you soar, the colder it gets. your lungs collapse in on themselves. below you is a tragically gorgeous quilt. it only looks beautiful when it's far away.
a snake of traffic becomes a glistening rainbow ribbon. smoke from factories become fluffy wads of cotton. houses, all the same, become flawlessly executed lines of stitching.
the air is ice now, not the flame you once knew. you thought getting closer to the sun would pull you into its circle of warmth.
black slides into your vision. your wings twitch, then stutter. they are beginning to bleed, a soft shower of crimson rain.
you will never reach the sun.
your eyes slip shut. your mind has left your body, continuing on without you, towards that beautiful, beautiful, light.
but your body, your prison, shall tumble to the earth and shatter.
your eyes fly open. you are wrapped in layers of silk, it clings to you, presses your limbs together.
you're still alive... but something's missing.
you claw at the threads, claw at your mind.
what is it?
what is it?
a tear blossoms. you drop to the ground, gape at the vessel. a glowing white orb, hanging from the thin branch of a willow tree.
and suddenly, you know. you rake your hands up and down your back, feeling nothing.
your wings are gone, now only their shadows remain. you will miss them, you will not easily forget.
as you walk away from the tree, to nowhere in particular, you gaze up at the moon, a soft echo of the sun's light.