Flying Like Paper

As the centuries burn notebook poetry as it bleeds metallic
somehow I'll learn to create gravity so when the earth turns
tangent angles, and the momenteum defies the laws by stopping
even though my skeleton veins still have mass,I won't be left empty.


As carousels streak cotton candy and summer lanterns into
hazel vison swelled by cardboard copper, my elbows will
disconect and limp towards the basketball court, because
my inwardly soaking lungs will breathe by themselves.


After the crushed tylenol and filtered NyQuil fades lithium,
maybe I'll grow  ground up feather wings who are the color
of chopper ginger and midnight rust- maybe then I'll climb
the Ferris wheel and my eyelashes will burn like gunshots.

Eventually, the ink stained freckles elaborately wasted on
my lethargic bones will spin themselves so dizzy that the
nightmares will bleed plastic fake IDs and lose too much blood,
so much that when I watch the frozen lemonade puddles, I'll fall.

Maybe the instanenous relief of scrapbook worth tattoos whose
childhood game finger tips imprinted growing up in ugly colors
across my thighs will be enough to paint wings into the empty
parts of my spine- maybe feathers will splay across my stomach.

Jellyfish colors will ignite my hips, and gravity will no longer
apply to me- maybe instead of touching the ground, my backwards
knees will traverse every formula defined for human capacity-
maybe my jagged edges will latch onto the clouds, the exploding stars.


One day paper airplanes will become my limbs-
I want to close my eyes and fly like three hole
lined paper folded into illicit shapes breathing
numbing, and mercury sorrow- I want my wings back.

Flying like paper could set me free.