By now she imagines
that her envy must have a flavor
Bitter orange and arsenic,
or apple peels and dust
It’s hard to be content
when she sees better all around
Unattainable, out of reach,
like sweet ripe fruit just above her head
she can’t change anything real, so
she will change her hair, change her dress, change her ideas
And hope nobody notices the plain old her
still hiding underneath
she feels like a brown-grey caterpillar
so how come, after so many years
she isn’t
a butterfly yet?
Voyager of freedom 