I once tried to become the sky.
Let the wind take what was left of me.
Let my only legacy be:
“The Girl Who Once Flew.”

I once tried to become the sky.
But heaven was heavier than I imagined.
I thought it would make sense—
I hoped the air would catch me,
that it would hold me as someone that meant something.

But gravity had other plans.
I didn’t fly.
I fell.
And I didn’t even realize I was falling until I looked up and saw I was at rock bottom.

Yet there was something grounding about falling.
It was satisfying to know
that I’ve fallen and couldn’t fall any more further.

Instead I laid there.
My legs and arms spread,
still bracing for a concrete I already hit.

I looked up at the clouds with envy.
Not because they floated—
but because they’ll never know what it’s like to fall.

I once tried to become the sky.
But I wrote this instead.
So I’d have something I left behind.