I see you tiny white moth, silent on the wall. Flat as a tattoo, you gather with your friends at night, huddled together, near the bare light. Unlike the conspicuous Monarch, you do not migrate alone over long distances. You are not coveted for your beauty. Too often you are discarded in superfluity. You may not think I see you gypsy moth. Oh but I do. I see how you hope to go unnoticed against those dirty walls. Safety in numbers, you think to yourself – lest you be called to testify. For what if you were called as a witness? What would you say? How could you explain? To you he was just another little boy, indistinguishable from the rest. But he was more than that. He was my boy. My butterfly. He said he had to go the bathroom, but I knew what he wanted. He wanted just one moth. He wanted you.
Oh gypsy moth, what did you see when he grabbed your wings? Did he collapse his hands around you in a formidable cage? Did he scream in pure delight as your frightened wings fluttered against his soft palms? Or did he just scream? You could have told the whole story. One wing on the Bible, you could have sworn to tell the truth? The whole truth? Nothing but the truth. But no, that could never happen. That would be unnatural.
So do what you do, you dirty white moth – stay there camouflaged with your friends against those filthy walls, smelling the stench of truth.
Go on gypsy moth – travel in your anonymity, thanking God, you were not born a beautiful butterfly.