Today, I was charged with the task.
To be or not—the executioner, decider of another's life.
An intruder.
An inferior.
An inconvenience at best.

I readied my weapon,
Came face to face with a moth on the window.
It was ugly.
It was menacing.
It was still and just chilling.

But as I neared closer, I saw the inscriptions on its back.
Dressed in colors: white, yellow, blue, and black.
They were thought provoking.
They told me a story.
They were kind of beautiful.

But I hated it for being different.
For asserting that it wasn't ugly.
For suggesting that maybe I was the ugly one to not appreciate its beauty.
I hated how confidently it stood in the presence of my judgment.

Funny how we won't hesitate to swat the moth out of existence,
But we give this unrealistic, fetishistic power to the butterfly.
As if they weren't both caterpillars.
As if the butterfly would spare us.
As if the prettiest colors don't represent poison.