My mother clipped my wings today, while my grandmother tried to sew up the patches, my beautiful colors torn.

I had not yet learned to fly and maybe that was why, the air was just too brisk, open with such risks, not ready to learn.

Maybe i forgot about falling, or trying to balance among the current of doubt.

"The clouds will catch me", I would always say, imagining the grasp holding me up when I felt unsteady, but forgetting they would evaporate with time.

My beautiful colors lay amongst my bed, I cry because there is no thread, that could heal this broken wound that has been pulled out.

Heal is a word I have heard often but never felt, "you will be healed" they would tell me, as my grandmother's tears ran along my shoulder.

The eyes that I once looked to for help were turned away as if I were someone else. A stranger is a label I did not yet which to have, but somehow I rightfully own.

Once I thought my wings came back and everything seemed to fit, my colors were symmetrical all in line with each wing. Until I woke up and realized it was just a dream.

Your going to fly, and I will walk, knowing that this rhythm will never wear off. This sadness will leave me as I soon realize that it completes me. Always underestimating the right foot to put in front, but never how much to hold in each hand.

Soon the sky will darken and each row of light will fade out, that is when the air seems calmest. When no ones around to see the mistakes that are hidden in the clouds, but its such a beauty out stretching the massive parts of my community.

The star I once had my eye on, was covered with a thick blanket never to be revealed again. High hopes got the best of me, as I laid that night hoping it would reappear to my sight.

I learned there was no dazzle that night no star in the sky, yet somehow the tiny voice inside of me said you will be alright.