If I killed a cockroach, spider or worm

No one would bat an eye

But if I laid my killing hands on something 

As sweet as a butterfly?

Then I’m a monster through and through

My soul it must be black

The creatures were the same, in the way it mattered

Neither were fighting back

When did it become fair to use ‘pretty privilege’

To choose if something dies

The new aesthetic standards of morality would

kill you for your ugly cries

Is this the kind of society you want to live in?

Where you must be hot

But even if you are the be prepared for the nets

Put on display for all the lot

Because for every butterfly there are it’s collectors

Even they don’t get a pass

From the messed up system in this goddamn world

Pinned up behind glass

Or you are murdered without second thought

Make your choice

Both strip you of your own autonomy

And of your voice