The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly

I have worn the shape they wanted,
stitched me into the fabric of approval,
only to find the seams tear at my skin.

The world hums in perfection’s name,
a chorus I never learned to sing,
but I have never needed flawless verses—
only a place to exist in the song.

I do not ask to be remade,
polished into something palatable.
I only ask to be seen—
not as a reflection of desire,
but as the truth of who I am.

Ms. Butterfly Genesis