Striped, small, lowly,
of little consequence,
I munch quietly on the toxic leaves
of my family tree.  

At first,
I ate unknowingly,
unaware of the poisonous juices
flavored with
deception,
mistrust,
and mental illness.  

But then I watched as birds of prey –
birds of
depression,
anxiety,
and addiction –
swooped in
and scooped up other caterpillars
on this family tree.  

And so I climbed,
higher and higher,
hoping to reach the refuge
of leaves tucked safely
in the deep, hidden folds 
of this ugly canopy.  

Can I escape these birds of prey?
Can I move beyond this harmful food,
consumed for years?
Can a tree wish itself
into producing different fruit?
Can a flower decide
to alter the color of its petals?  

If I am to make this change,
it needs to be much more
than a mere matter of will.
I need time spent in silence,
in a chrysalis of self-examination.
I need to feel the struggle
of true transformation
and the beautiful pain
of metamorphosis.  

I need to fly away from this family tree,
not crushed in the sharp beak
of generational pain,
but as a new creation –
a butterfly
with horizons all her own.