The words on paper blur and melt
as she wraps the sheets around her now,
shoulders rising as she gasps in the cold.
She will overcome herself.
All the fine lines, papercut thin,
that she's used as a map for so long are finally
sinking back into her skin.
And with a pair of scissors, elegant
she cuts herself a pair of wings.
The writing is delicious nonsense,
torn and torn again (she breathes)
until her story stutters, and stalls,
and finally her eyes roll away…
She is so grateful is hurts, but she is
because even when she dreams of flight,
it's always and only paper.