Sore, Not Soar

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“Sometimes you have to find your wings on the way down,” I once heard someone say. Hopeful words if I hadn’t already hit the ground. Where did the problems I was born into end and the ones I created begin? What if it’s all the same, one continuum of a wasted life.

My trauma has become an excuse for my inadequacies. A crutch for the shallow breaths I choose to take. Third chance to second chance to no chance at all will end with another sad narration about my trauma. These are the notes on which I have left.

I am buried beneath the litter I created. Dirty and wounded, I am surrounded by my sad stories and excuses and broken crutches. And the realization, all too late.

The problems I was born into came with a set of wings. I was just too small to see them.

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