METAMORPHOSIS: The Migration of Silence
It started as a nervous hum,
a soft riot beneath my ribs—
the kind of light-winged chaos
that promised a sky.
But they grew heavy on the climb,
dragging their velvet legs across my heart,
sinking hooks into the pulse
until my chest felt like an overcrowded cage.
By the time they reached my throat,
the wings were no longer soft.
They were dry, papery, and sharp,
blocking the air, turning "I adore you"
into a jagged stone I couldn't swallow.
I thought: If I just let them out, I can breathe.
So I forced the gates.
I tore the silence open and let the names fly.
I watched the confession spill into the air
between your eyes and mine.
But the air didn’t clear.
The weight didn’t lift.
The words are out now,
dead things scattered on the floor between us,
and I am still choking on the wings I didn't get to keep—
realizing I am just as pathetic with a voice as I was without one.