Well, isn’t this a glorious pile of shit I’ve found myself in.
Still clinging on to you like I’m scrabbling in the dark,
Holding on to maggots that wriggle in my palm,
And then disappear, eaten whole when we lark.
Metamorphosis can be so disappointing.
You are not the bright butterfly I expected.
You’re common or garden domesticated house fly,
Lying about a life you say you have rejected.
I had such hopes that you’d pupate from chrysalis
Into the beautiful, bright butterfly that I once saw.
I fear not. You’re no more than necrotic tissue feeder,
And I won’t wait for you any more.



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