they tell stories of a boy whose father fashioned wings,

and said, be humble, son, you were not meant to fly.

they tell stories of his grin, of how he leapt,

then fell,

reaching for the sun.

they say, he was proud,

and it killed him.

but they forget:

before he fell, icarus flew.

feet shuffle and dance, wanting to run

hands push and pull against each other

eyes are on the floor, on the walls, but not meeting

your worried gaze

you ask if i'm okay

i tell you i'm fine

i'm not.

later, you'll come and find me

and ask me why i lied

I'll laugh, and tell you that

it's not a lie if i can make it true

writing this feels like a lie

is it anxiety or am i just shy?

is it real when i cry

it feels fake when you sigh

but with tears in my eyes

i feel like i'm out of my mind

they softly flutter,

those wings of color,

on a breeze just barely there

i dare not breathe,

or wings will leave,

and end this moment shared

Beside you, I’ll wait,

Offering the comfort

Of my hand on your back,

And the readiness

Of my ears to hear you,

But since you have stayed silent,

I’ll wait.

Exciting nights,

And peaceful days,

Hordes of gnats,

And burning rays.

Easy smiles,

And frizzy hair,

There’s nothing like

That summer air.

My fury doesn’t burn

But thunders in a storm

With howling winds

And electric words

Striking without mercy

So beware dark clouds

Hovering in my soul

You will not survive

a young girl,

waking up at

the barest hint

of her mother’s

yellow gaze,

stretching into

her warm light

with moonlight kisses

dancing on her

soft crimson skin