This isn’t a butterfly that flutter in the breeze
It’s torn flame. Winged defiance.
It keeps every scar—
and in those very cracks,
it finds its shape.

Meant for the moments of rebuild—
when you stop trying to please,
stop trying to impress,
stop living by what you “should” be.
And ready to live as yourself

This butterfly isn’t the ideal of beauty.
It’s a footnote of freedom.
The wings begin to spread
in that moment when a version of you—
once silenced, once misunderstood—
finally says out loud,
“This is who I am.”

Wearing it is a statement:
“I may not be perfect,
but I’m clear, I’m real,
and I’m ready to fly.”