And the feeling of meconium, pushing through, the filling of my fragile wings until they’re strong.

Until they carry me up and out and over and away, watching the flowers beneath me, the breeze, lifting me. Sunlight turning up my colours till they sing.

And on the leaves below, the photons warm through the residue of who I used to be.

And if you look up, you can see me, can hear the soft beating of my wings.

See me, hear me.

There is no shame.