Oh, to inch up into a little ball and be encircled by the console of an impenetrable chrysalis - suffocating me slowly as the lack of oxygen inside makes me dense. Dense into thinking the tingling sensation growing through my limbs is that of pure love or acute fondness from my organic captor, and not that of grisly death. How I lie to myself. This wish is not that of rebirth, it is of death in the unembroidered sense.

Before I fall to the earth from a once safe bough, I want the world around my dying cocoon to burst into flames. My followers, my nation, would cry tears, smoldering tears, which would only kindle the bonfire - and eat me away. I want the nation to reduce themselves to ashes, along with me, their personal icon of sanctity.

They would wave a white flag and stick it on the tree from where I fell, for all to see. Then unclothed, unprotected - void of the labels written on their skins - they would line themselves up in an undignified illustration of their malfunction and wasted triumph. Beneath each of their crippled feet a fire would ignite. A fire produced solely from the torment of old photographs and meaningless letters of love, of sanction, or rejection. The heat would burn the flesh from their feet. Skin would peel and fold and they would not move. As I would not move, while my chrysalis blistered and peeled and melted with my flesh inside.

The End