Drifting from the sky like an angel’s feather
is a snowflake, that gently lands on my skin
And I think to myself-
what did that angel do to get kicked out of heaven?
Did he struggle as he fell? Thrashing with rage and indignation?
Or did he simply let go and allow himself to drift towards oblivion?
Or maybe, it was neither.
Maybe he chose to leave.
The small shock of cold brings me back to reality.
It is brilliant, almost too brilliant against my numb body.
I want it to stop so I can go back to feeling nothing.
It would be better for my tired brain that way.
I tried to tell a story once, but I realized quickly
That nobody was listening, that nobody cared
and that made me lose my mind entirely
because it made me feel so small.
In that moment, I watched my reality fall apart.
I saw a corpse. And two figures,
too cowardly to go separate ways,
but too cowardly to stay.
Too cowardly to listen- but how is it so?
When the words keep falling, falling, falling
onto ears that choose to be deaf,
onto skin that chooses to be numb.
And like the angel, I fall. This time on my own accord.
But was it really? Or did someone kick me out without me knowing?
But without wings to catch me, instead of falling
I mindlessly circle the singularity.
I tried to tell a story once, but then I realized I was
actually flying under the sea.
And nobody was there to watch and be proud
that I had achieved something I thought impossible.
So then why even try?
Each word, each snowflake, each feather
Is a reminder that I am in fact, still alive
and it leaves me to ruminate on a choice.
A choice I am too afraid to make.
After all, I was never allowed to choose
even the most insignificant things.
So why should I be able to now?