Remember You Are Not Fly

I write to you as a fly.

I ask you, what would be different about me? If I were without words, or hands, and didn’t have to drag my legs across the earth.

I like to picture it when I feel small, because I’m not that small at all, I can dig and stomp and dance, I can take up space.

I’m allowed to take up space.

Or when I’m bored of my own voice, and no one hears me. Because I can laugh, I can scream, I can sing. I can be loud.

I’m allowed to be loud.

I like to picture it when I’m sick of being so low, and without wings or flight. It’s because I can’t fly that I can spend all this time looking up.

There are so many things I look up to, and the sky is always big. I can still believe clouds are fluffy and the moon is made of cheese, there will always be an innocence to the things that can’t fly.

And did you know that flies can’t chew? But I can, I can bite and gulp and rip and devour. There is so much that I can do.

I feast, I think, I love, I hurt, I make a mess of everything.

I’m allowed to make a mess.

If I were a fly, I would have everything figured out, I would have a simple objective and a clear reason for being.

But I do not, I change my mind every day, and I get things wrong, so many things wrong. But I can change, I can change, I can change.

I’m allowed to change.

I write to you as a fly because I am not a fly, I am just a human, and that’s enough.

I will always be enough.

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