on being called flighty at 3am

One helium balloon,

one tether.

Going higher and higher, because

it doesn't know it's doomed.

Rising, falling.

Seeping, weeping.

All of its fulfillment gone

All of the air breathed into it with such care,

such-

worthless caution.

Its fragile skin

Paper thin

Stuck by tacks and nails and people's broken pieces

Those sharp edges, the ones that want

nothing more than to destroy,

to make suffer.

The tether, grounding.

The helium, lively.

The balloon, drifting.

Being kept in line by the thin, wirey cord

that doesn't know its worth.