YOU

The first spiral was in the womb. It came like a ferris-wheel, and there were no flashing lights, scenic view, or calling birds at the peak. I just spun. Out and into a sun that lacked yellow but shined white, you'd think that was the moment my wings grew.

It was too late for the consumption of someone else's honey-dew. She poisoned my cacoon. One-winged, I'd fly years to find the right direction.

Migrating south was not an option: Too many snakes and lizards outside of their gardens. Even though I was born free, still restricted to these broken wings. I'd only fly mid-air.

Discrimination was seasonal.

How does a butterfly catch its own wing? By breaking layers? I'll take what's left of me and paint a new!

Instead of black & yellow. I'll replace my stripes with the color green. The snakes in the grass would offer me clear passage. A spot for me to finally know what the color yellow does to stillness.

Who knew gold felt wholesome.

I'd color the rest of my wing white. This gave me full access to their garden. Disguised upon a nature that pick-pocketed the guidance of nurture. A privilege never looked so beautiful yet so jailed.

For my new color wing amused simple predators. It was more amusing that I'd still lack perfection or similarity, for my nature was abnormal. With this newfound disguise, I'd only hidden my true form.

For what? No new layer of fresh air could compare to the ozone. I was alone. Discovering that the sky had more room than a fence. That the sun didn't only beam on green grass. But gave light to shadow concrete and falling leaves.

So I flew.

Flew away from gated areas. Freedom was admissible, not limited. No longer with the idea of fixing my wings.

To find what's broken around me. I'd fly.