06/04/2026
I was not born for the ground.
I was made of height—
of sharp sight,
of decisions that don’t hesitate.
Air was supposed to know my name.
But something happened—
not loudly,
not all at once—
just enough to tilt the sky
and take a wing with it.
Now I stand here,
not fallen—
just… unfinished in flight.
Feathers loosen,
drifting down my arm like quiet confessions—
pieces of who I was
that couldn’t keep up
with who I had to become.
Still—
my eyes haven’t changed.
I see everything.
Distance.
Movement.
Weakness.
Opportunity.
Even grounded,
I am not harmless.
Even wounded,
I remember the sky.
And maybe that’s the point—
not to be whole again,
but to know:
I don’t need both wings
to be dangerous.
