I imagine you as a butterfly,
emerging from your chrysalis;
your wings frantic, furious,
beating somewhere deep inside me
as I lie awake
under a clear midnight sky.

Do you sense my trepidation
as the clock winds down,
faster than I ever imagined
time could move?

I have always lived for myself,
turning over every corner of the world
in search of meaning,
reaching for happiness—
elusive, just beyond my grasp.

How strange that now
a fragile sliver of it
arrives in sleepless nights,
in cries that fracture the dark
and echo into the horizon.

Perhaps this rush of emotion
is merely bargaining;
something within me
trying to soften the doubt,
to convince me
that I belong
among the self-anointed martyrs
of love.

Your mother, your mother, your mother—
so goes the hadith,
echoing long before you or me,
binding me to a fate
I am still learning to inhabit.

And if you are a butterfly, my baby,
then I am not the flame
that burns itself away for light,
but the trembling hands
cupped around it,
aching
just to keep the wind
from reaching you.

---

About the Author

Diana Johar is a Singapore-based writer whose work explores memory, identity, and the quiet complexities of love and loss. Her writing lingers in the subtle spaces of everyday life, often returning to themes of longing, resilience, and the passage of time. Her poetry has been featured in various literary platforms. She teaches Literature and is raising two boisterous boys.

---

Instagram: @wordsbydianajohar