flight

I am a mayfly born in April. With torn wings I crawl, slowly but surely. I see the butterflies, I see the mosquitoes. They fly so easily; what I desperately wish for is mundane to them. Some days my wings work, and I can gain an inch off the ground. But shortly I’m quickly reminded that the ground I crawl on is simply the path I take.

So I keep crawling. So I keep trying. So I keep moving my torn wings in resistance. An attempt to defy the gravity that holds me down, an attempt to taste the edge of the sky. But some days it’s so hard. So, so, hard. But I know I can do it, because I’ve done it before. And in my head, all I repeat over and over is that one day, the sky will be mine. I will fly with these broken wings.