Maybe one day I’ll fly next to you
I’ve always felt wild inside. Since I was small, I’ve yearned for fantastic worlds and dragons and garnet gowns sweeping down staircases. I wanted to live in an abandoned tower in a meadow under endless star-filled skies and grow out long grey hair and be a wizard. These aren’t unusual fantasies. Most nerds want to be magical, want to have unfathomable powers and escape the dullness of a world where they don’t really fit in. Popular kids don’t crave that in the same way.
I’m too old for that now. The only people over the age of 12 who thirst for magic are weirdos. I don’t know why, if it’s me thinking that they’re weird for not succumbing to reality or if they’re just too far gone. I acclimated a little. I learned how to dress, sort of, and how to do my face. But sometimes, at night, when I’m alone, or in the day when the breeze hits me just right, I let myself feel it again. I let myself pretend I’m a warrior princess, powerful and beautiful, destined to change the world. It only ever lasts a moment, before I’m embarrassed and human again, but it wells inside me. It makes me ache.
Maybe, in another life, in another universe.