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          I was reminded today that caterpillars bleed in shades of blues and greens. There was one outside art, the puddle surrounding it big enough to fit several more of the same size. Upon first glance it appeared to be dead, but it writhed as I passed. I couldn’t tell which part was hurt, but the way it moved and was unable to even lift itself, the bright yellow splash of innards on that blue patch of pavement was proof that it’d die soon. 

          I took one look at it and almost could hear it cry like a baby, it was a baby. I wanted nothing more than to scoop it up carefully and shush it, to make it all better, but I was excruciatingly aware of the others behind me that would surely trample it worse and increase the pain. I knew it if picked me up its body would tare like a wet tissue.

          Killing it was horrible. Some would say the world kill is dramatic, considering it was already half dead and I only ended its suffering, but I want to cry at the thought. I killed it, it was just a little baby.

          I can still feel the way my shoe slid over its head, I can still see it lying there still in that awful blue puddle.