When I was younger I always dreamed,
I always dreamed of spreading my wings,
Of letting go of my parents and soaring.
Never looking back,
Never caring about what would happen later.
Just beating my wings as hard as I could and then,
Then I would let myself go limp,
And I would fall.
I would use my wings to dream in the world of clouds,
To escape the cruel children in school,
To flee the teachers who never understood.
Then I would never hurt,
I would just stay in the sky,
And I would dream.
When I came home with my first bruise,
My mother didn't notice.
When I came home with my first black eye,
My father told me to look out for doors.
I limped home with a broken bone,
And no one said anything.
I stopped talking,
Because I was afraid of the words in my mouth,
And no one looked surprised.
I started wearing long sleeves and hoodies,
And everyone said I was going through a 'phase'.
No one saw the scars on my arms.
No one heard the mean words thrown at me.
No one tried to talk to me about anything.
No one helped me off the floor when I fell.
Why didn't they see me?
The teachers thought I didn't care.
My parents thought I was being a 'teenager'.
My classmates thought I was a 'loser'.
No one heard me scream for help.
No one saw me give in to the pain.
No one saw me take my last step.
No one.
No one.
And finally,
Finally,
I spread my wings,
And I flew,
And still no one saw.
YOU ARE READING
Based
Short StoryEvery picture tells a story, And every story paints a picture, So why can I not use a picture to tell a story? I do not own any of these pictures. All works in this book are fiction. (Please let me know if you would like me to tag anyt...
