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Ladybug
Lady Cocci
I’m sitting on my porch, basking in the warmth of a young spring sun when a coccinellidae lands between the slats of sunshine on my arm. I think I like the name “Ladybug” better, but if you prefer “Ladybird” or “Lady Beetle,” feel free to say that name in your head as you read it. It’s a bit eccentric for one ten-millimeter speck of flying protein to have so many names; I bet she’s vain. She tucks her thin grey wings into her shiny orange Cara purse, or is that carapace, and in the next moment, she is speedily flittering to her next encounter. I guess she just came to grace me with her gift of good luck, as if I even needed it.
Just because I’m sitting alone on the porch, mulling over my thoughts, does not mean that I am needy. Sure, I open the floodgates to my optical vestibule on occasion, when I am scared or sad. Every person has weak moments every now an then, times when he/she feels all alone in this world. Even you, Ms. Ladybug, cry at times, leaving your pungent yellow mark on those that have harassed you.
Is it my defense mechanism that calls you near? I have my walls up to protect my innermost feelings and warm and fragile insides, if you must know. Don’t you wear your hard shell carapace to keep from spilling your guts--protection from those that pick you apart and push your buttons? That’s what I thought.
And don’t come around here telling me that my bright outward appearance is some uncommon phenomenon. I smile all day, of course I do. Who wants to see someone moping around with a furrowed brow and quivering lip? If I let others believe that I am happy, they won’t prey on me or ask any questions. And you, Ms. Hypocrite, do just the same. You, with your neon exterior, flashy to the hilt, are portraying beauty and tranquility when you really have a hidden agenda. That sassy orange you wear protects you from predators and nosey passerby while you traipse around as if you only want to spread joy. HA! You are poison, you villainess. Don’t let anyone absorb your innermost feelings, or they will be sick with pity. Yeah, that’s how I feel too.
So, the next time you come around here, flitting your silky wings and showing off your vintage vogue style, just remember that I am you. I don’t need your damn pity, your “good luck”. You can take your toxic cuteness elsewhere, my friend. Go live your lies, I’ll live mine, and we’ll coast through this year one long day at a time.
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