cicadas chirp around me
buzzing and bursting at the seams for something to change
something has to give
but it won’t be me
and it won’t be you
I can feel my skin peeling off
gross, disgusting, unnatural,
yet praised
the summer sun burns me and
boils me down to my
bare essentials.
I become nothing but what you want me to become.
but when autumn comes near
I feel the weather cools
and I become myself again.
the cicadas die off,
and only their shells remain.
I am more than that. I will always be.
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