I have paper wings.
Not the kind made for fairy tales or freedom songs.
Not the kind folded by children, thrown toward ceiling fans,
hoping for lift-off in living rooms too cramped for dreams.
No.
Mine were etched in the margins of grocery lists and eviction notices,
taped together with leftover faith
and just enough desperation to call it architecture.

You see,
these wings weren’t made to soar.
They were made to remind me
what falling looks like—
graceful at first, like surrender with style,
then panic disguised as poetry.

When that losing streak is just too long—
when the nights don’t end but just loop,
a vinyl scratch of mistakes and maybes—
when the mirror starts lying less
and the friends stop calling back
and the job becomes a costume I wear to play stability…
I look at my wings.
Crinkled.
Torn.
Still pretending they’re not scared of the rain.

And maybe I’ll let them burn.

Just whoosh—
watch the embers drift like fireflies that forgot
what joy feels like.
Let the ashes land where they will,
on shoulders of strangers who never asked for my smoke.
Let them settle on sidewalks like memories
we try not to trip over.

‘Cause who needs to fly?
Really.
Who decided that up was better than here?
That motion meant meaning?
That escape equaled evolution?
I’m not broken because I stayed.
I’m not lesser for being heavy.

I’d rather be here forever…
With my knees to my chest,
on a rooftop that’s seen too many storms
and not enough stars.
I’ll learn every crack in this concrete.
I’ll name each one like family.
I’ll find beauty in the stillness
and songs in the silence
and maybe even hope
in the dust.

Than flying past hope.
Than gliding over the fields of what-could-have-beens,
waving at the ghosts of what-I-once-wanted,
shouting down at the voices screaming,
“Look at you go!”
while inside, I know
I’m not going anywhere.

Because sometimes,
you don’t need altitude.
You just need honesty.
You just need to say:
“I’m tired.”
And let that be sacred.

So no,
I don’t need to fly.
I need to feel.
To break.
To mend.
To breathe.
To be.

And maybe, just maybe—
in the right light,
even paper wings
can look like they were made for something more
than the fall.