You were a nervous kid in winter; not anymore. You have wrapped yourself in so many layers of protective silk that you can’t breathe. You won’t let me in, you won’t let anything out. You think your heart is a cocoon, but you failed biology quite catastrophically and one day your chest will hatch. A million moths will escape you and as long as their wings beat your blood will pump, sure, but the moths belong to everyone who was ever nice to you. Every time someone dies, your pulse will slow. And I am waiting for spring to come.