At the end of the tunnel, there’s always
light. Somehow, I know that’s a myth because
the sky is black, and I am still alive,
like how a bird runs into a building
the way a building runs into a bird.
By accident. By mistake. By a choice
between life and death. But birds fly. They don’t
walk fine lines between sleep and salvation.
Which is to say I do it all the time,
and find a way to somehow call it flight.
I have grown out of my shoes; I’m ready
to leap off of the subway and into
the sea. I want to be like the water—
waiting years to turn blue, and then drowning.