The Traces We Carry

The Traces We Carry


They say a butterfly begins its flight with whispers of who it used to be,
carrying faint traces of the crawling days it thought no one would ever see,
as if every colored wing remembers its own small history.

And maybe we, too, walk with memories that never stray,
fragments of old fears and small victories tucked away,
reminding us that even in our brightest moments, yesterday still has a say.

Transformation is never simple, it asks you to lose before you rise,
to melt into the parts you feared, to shed the comforting disguise,
to bloom from the kind of silence that rearranges your skies.

So even when I shine, I see,
The tender trace of who I used to be,
A butterfly remembers, so do I,
The small beginnings that taught me to fly free.

Because nothing we become erases the paths we had to survive,
and every flight we take is a promise that the old versions stay alive,
teaching our trembling beginnings how to lift, how to breathe, how to finally thrive.