Butterflies

Blooming under my ribs.
Pupa erupting,
From cocoons,
Unsure if they are fully formed,
Meeting the world, their world: 
The flesh under my ribs. 

Squirming, squirming,
Still trying to break free,
To find daylight,
They burrow through muscle and skin,
Some through bones 
And I let them, 
For it is no life 
Hidden beneath ribs. 

One of us should be free,
To fly to the clouds,
And float away. 

Be free, my winged children. 

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