I do not know
when my dreams
became your kingdom,
turning a blind eye
as you trimmed my creativity
from torrent to drizzle,
and my wings to fit
your comfort zone.
There seems to be
no middle ground
between your need to control
and my desire for freedom,
so all we have turned into
are two stubborn generals
taking a stand
on opposite hills.
I have outgrown my need for you,
left it behind,
somewhere along the road,
buried next to the skeletons
of my insecurities.
You may cling to your denial,
keep insisting we are not done yet,
but I assure you
it won’t change a thing –
this woman has moved on.
A look in the mirror tells me
my wings look a bit
dishevelled, worn by wear
but I can’t help myself,
I so love to fly.
I throw myself into the wind
with arms widespread,
flying in the wild, crazy patterns
I never dare to follow
when I’m on the ground.
I will not avert my face
but allow the airstream’s
full frontal pressure to hit me
until I‘m barely able to breathe.
november child 