I carry around disclaimers and placards with apologies written in my blood. I feel ashamed, I feel too much, I know too much. My inner voice keeps insisting that I unfold my wings, that I’m not a caterpillar anymore — but I can’t. I doubt butterflies exist out there, and all I can see around me is caterpillars and I don’t want to make them feel…threatened.
I doubt that these wings will carry me, anyway. I doubt that I’ll find another group in which I could belong .
I long for the day I learn to belong to myself. I long for the night I take a leap into the dark, not fearing the cold, hard ground below because I’d trust my wings to carry me above and beyond my fears.