I was flying again.
I hate flying.
I was moving down Canal St
bobbing underneath me, I had to keep grabbing
and store signs to keep me from
rising too high. I broke all my nails. I don't
nails, I bite them
There was blood all over my hands, not streaks but
in little trails where it dripped, dried and not
hurting at all. The trees kept snapping, I kept
rising, above the park now, grasping for branches to
hold on to. They snapped and fell away, I was
way too high, holding shreds of leaves.
I knew I'd never get home, I was too far out
of my atmosphere, and the clouds weren't helping, I
couldn't see which way to steer and they kept
dissipating when I tried to hold on and I lost
all the leaves and the world dropped away.