What was born here is not a butterfly.

From the cracked cocoon something emerged, something bulbous and ugly and wasting all of its potential.

This is not a creature that dances on the wind. It does not flit about in groups, migrating South for fresh plants.

This thing sleeps in its own puddles of excrement and fluids. This thing howls because it does not know what to say. This thing attempts to claw its heart out. This thing is angry because it is afraid. This thing might or might not have a soul.