Caterpillars turn into butterflies. Worms turn apple cores into compost, good for the environment. Caterpillars cause self-doubt, suffering, decades of a lack of assertiveness.
Worms probably don’t exist where I come from.

I was four years old. My parents took me to a puppet show. The room was pitch-black, but other children buzzed and squealed with excitement. I did, too.
Then, a brilliant spotlight on a toucan. He greeted us. We, all too happy to hear our own voices, yelled back our hellos.
Toucan introduced a character. “Can you guess what kind of animal this is, everyone?” His voice was that of a clown: frightening, somehow appealing to toddlers.
I knew the answer. “A WORM!”
A silence followed that already spoke of my life to come. One of depression, shrinks, pills.
Then, laughter. You know how cruel a child’s laugh can be.
My parents turned red as they took my wrist and pulled it out of the theater.
I was chastised. That wasn’t a worm.

Who can tell the fucking difference anyway, when you’re four?