Leaving the nest
I cut my own wings.
They gave me the ability to fly
but I never asked for my feet to leave the ground.
Who likes the cold of an empty nest, anyway?
It is only warm because of the twigs I put there
and the residue of my old down.
Exploration is a romanticized version of abandonment,
where we leave what we love because apparently
falling into love is better than growing into it.
What if wanderlust is a circular path
that sends us out to discover nothing except
how much we have to wander before we lust for home again?
I’m not scared of leaving what I know but
I’m not ashamed to say I don’t want to.