26/03/2026
Green eyes dressed up as friends
close at the start, but never the end.
They loved my light, my laugh, my flame,
before admiration turned to a quiet game.
They watched too long, stood a little too near,
borrowed my rhythm, my words, my fear.
Tried on my style, my tone, my skin,mistaking closeness for getting in.
Green eyes linger, silently compare,
counting my wins like they’re theirs to bear.
When I rose higher, they softened their cheer not absence of love, just envy in fear.
They grew competitive where they never ran,
echoed my thoughts like a pre-written plan.
Sweet little compliments dipped in disguise,
sugar on tongues with a venomous bite.
Some get close not to walk beside,
but to measure your flame from the inside.
They fall in love with who you appear,
then leave when your frequency climbs too clear.
Because when I ascended, I changed the room and green eyes couldn’t survive the bloom.
What they loved first became what they fled,
a level they couldn’t meet or transcend.
Transcend.
What does it mean to transcend?
Deep in the green, muddy pond,
a water beetle climbs the stem,
thinking it’s meeting its end never to be seen again.
Vibrating, shaking a purpose unclear,
yet nothing had ever felt more clear.
No idea. No fear.
Just climb and transcend.
Stained-glass wings unfold for flight, not fight.
An emerald body, shimmering bright,
remembering all its might
a living metamorphosis rising,
dragonfly in full flight.
The clouds so clear, the air so wide,
cutting through atmosphere
freedom in sight.
Circling as the sun beats down,
a glistening pool below on the ground.
Yet these wings won’t let me near.
Reflected back, a mirror so clear:
“I know that water
that green, muddy deep
where I once swam.”
I remember the friendships,
how they all began
light-hearted, easy, full of fun.
Those green eyes from the start
were children of a wounded heart,
looping round, right back to the start,
over and over
swimming in circles inside their part.
Not every beetle becomes winged
long, slender, lifted,
new-purposed and free from it all.
Not every heart gets cracked wide open
and answers the call.
But those who rise
who let the fire move through them,
alchemising it all
see the pond for what it was:
a beginning,
a womb
from which to be reborn.
What rises returns as rain,
back to the pond
but never the same.
Written by Claire Cope 🐉💚
