The backwards butterfly,

 does not know creation

She does not know liberation,

the stages of change,

Of metamorphosis

she only knows of prisons forged of

broken hearts,

Of  shackles made of

bent minds, of handcuffs made of

broken spirits

And the quiet that follows thunderstorms that scares her more than the rain 

The backwards butterfly,

 does not know that water will dilute this pixy dust that Peter sprinkled for her,

that she is wasting this gift by standing outside in the rain

My name, in Korean, is butterfly spelled twisted around, 

Inside out, 

backwards

not quite facing south,

and my world,

 is always,

 wet

I used to believe that my wings unfurled when I smiled,

that, if I beat hard enough

then I could fly high enough

and escape this god forbidden world

Maybe,

if I made it seem effortless

enough people would believe that I,

had enough oxygen to escape this atmosphere,

if I flapped hard enough 

it would be clear that I going somewhere instead of mindlessly spiraling,

So I keep on smiling and beating my wings, 

because I know that

if up is heaven then this is surely hell, 

God knows that there are no demons like the ones whose claws have gripped your mind

But demons, don’t always look like monsters

So I always seem to forget that daisy’s, 

Are still weeds, 

That flower chains, 

Are still chains, 

I am disgusted by their disguise, 

My rage at how broken this world made me, 

The unwanted inheritance of being human that was passed onto me, 

Because I, am the backwards butterfly

I can never find the strength to fly away, 

Always looking towards the false promises of porch lights, not the sun, 

My fear about facing predators, like  

The grief that sucks at your soul when you realize your not wanted, 

like trash that could have been recycled, 

somebody who committed suicide but still lingered to see one last sunrise, 

Words that cut their truth into your skin like diving bird’s with snapping beaks, 

Words like depression, and anxiety, 

Words that make you feel like you are flailing,

 in an ocean, 

and how even though there's enough plastic in the sea to build islands, 

there isn’t a single life preserver for 

a soul in that mess, 

which means that 

I am always 

Drowning

These, are all the droplets in my storm, 

and 

These, are what are crushing the sound of my cries in the rain, 

these are the reason my fingers are raisins and

 legs are past al dente, 

But here is the thing about butterflies, 

Even with the daisy chains, and the pain, the hopelessness, and the rain, 

Even when our world is so drenched that we feel we cannot lift our wings, 

Even if we do not know that the grass is greener on the other side, 

We have to keep believing that somewhere, it has stopped raining

That somewhere, the clouds are parting

That somewhere, the sun is shining 

So we keep on migrating 

To find that place 

Thank you