I suppose you lied—
when you swore that words could never wound you.
It is no crime; all souls deceive,
veiling their thresholds,
concealing the hour when endurance unravels,
and silence becomes their only shield.

I have reshaped fragments of myself,
filed edges though the steel endures—
yes, I remain a thorn,
but my counsel turns inward now,
no longer flung outward like brittle seeds,
but sown deep in the soil of my own marrow.

And so the contract splinters—not with fire, but with the quiet severing of a thread,
a fellowship drifting into distance,
a vessel whose torn sails I will never mend.

I am content—resting in the stillness I have chosen.
And you—
are you at peace, or only silent?

It is on my tongue—
a feeling
palatable,
aerodynamic transition,
palpable.

Redesigning for flight,
for movement through resistance,
for letting go of drag.

Whereas my muscles would tense up,
a few inches from the ground—
now I’ve learned that to clip one’s wings
is to stay anchored, be shackled down.

Not that being grounded
isn’t a form of comfort, safety, or security—
but there’s a shift that comes
from renegotiating the terms
you’ve set with your own mind.

It’s a daunting challenge,
yet a necessary one.

Because I want to see the world,
not from behind a pane of glass,
but with wind in my lungs
and wonder in my chest.

And I want to fall in love—
falling into bed with you,
multiple strings attached,
and still feel like the luckiest person alive.

To do that,
I am taking flight
in ways I could not have foreseen
as a child.