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little bird

when i was a little girl,

my mom told me i could


fly.

eight years later.

i know better now.

life has taught me so many things.

you can’t dream without risking


nightmares.

you can’t have love without having your heart


broken.

you can’t hope without being in


misery.

you can’t lift a soul if it’s already


anchored.

now,

after everything,

it doesn’t seem worth it.

and i don’t know what to do.


i can’t fly.

i’ve learned that life isn’t


the release,


the freedom,


the perfection

of being able to spread your wings


and soar.

it’s having your wings


clipped.

it’s being stuck in a cage all your life, and

finally being able

to open the hatch and


fly away

only to realize

your skinny yellow talons have been


tied down

to the bars of the cage.

it’s seeing the world from the sky and

then having leather blinders

cut into your eyes.

it’s


flying through the stars,


kissing the clouds,


singing in the moonlight.

only to be shot down.

and i’ve learned one can’t fly

unless they’re willing to risk it.

the one thing i’m scared of

more than not being able to fly,

is death


of a dream


of a heart


of a hope


of a soul


of me.

because death means


the end.

i’m not going to let that happen.

so instead of being able to fly

i let them clip my wings and

i sink into my cage.



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