Launching myself from the building,
Arms unfurled in the air, wind peeling back the edges of my skin, unravelling my hair.
I am nothing more than air particles streaming through the lower layers of the atmosphere,
A spectrum in a body suit.
Nothing between me and the Earth, no tantalizing clouds, no sudden dis-collapse of wings
To keep me from breaking.
I am fragile.
Little bits of porcelain that get under your fingernails and make you bleed.
I am collapsed veins,
A spiderwebbed mirror,
A piece of history that lies forgotten under the sewage.
I lift my chin against the screaming air, raise my eyes to the sky.
I am part of and apart from life, both in and out,
Next to and in between.
I open the old, dingy box, hide myself within the folds,
Clamber out from under the tattered flaps and emerge back into the world
That I have shunned, that I have loved, and will always embrace.
Take a hammer to my skin.
I will bruise. My skin will break.
But, in the end, I will be nothing more than a wisp that bleeds out of your grip
And do jubilant cartwheels on the lightning struck path.