The red caterpillar with budding wings

I think these days all I have is forgiveness. Indeed, I am tired to my bones most of the time and still can't make sense of the crowd. The child in me would prefer to be invisible among all these shadowy niceties. I am losing some friends and I can feel that string getting slack. It's sad, I never had many. 

But, all I have is forgiveness. I can't fight anymore. I am exhausted. Old even. Everything, all of you, all of us, has turned into mere trickles on my favourite songs on the radio. 

But, since all I have is forgiveness, the child would prefer to be in the shadows, the closet where it feels claustrophobic, the cocoon. Everything is washed away, brushed away. 

I am so bountifully happy because someone new thinks I am worth the flowers and my favourite poetry book on the greens of Central Park. I must say, it's a good and funny proposition because my girlfriends think I still remind them of dead roses. I need to prove that this time I am more roses than death. They always disapprove of me. 

Even my young cousins think that there is something so sadly ominous about the amount of kohl in my eyes that I am always too much of everything. 

But, since all I have is forgiveness, I do not know how else to paint the rage in any other shade. I wish you would have told me that black suits me the best.