or a fragile cluster of cells
I cradle this idea
so delicate
too light even for the weight of words
for they will crush it
a premature death
I must be gentle and secretive
shielding it from their
malformed preconceived
judgments
for they will warp it
scar it
no longer flexible
no longer free to just be
I will hide you
in the cocoon of my soul
and when your wings have grown
be you moth, bird, angel, or fly
you will burst forth
imperfect
but glorious.
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