A feather

Isn't it you always donned in peculiar feathers in those starkly illusive brilliant colours holding your truths while you write on your wall?

I guess only you know that but for the sake of belonging, of being accepted and being loved, there are no true colours to show, just reflections of the mirror you haven't learned how to hold. Your therapy is a demonstration of a state of happiness. You must have it this way. They are pleased with yourself because they can't see you. An achievement.

And there's a glimpse, can you see it, across the dark pink horizon of yesterday's sky? There's a feather that has run away, it's on a quest, it has found courage to hold the burden of the things not said, the skin not felt, the walls not touched, the whispers meant for others, wings meant for others. It endures looking at the sky.