Up On The Roof

My bedroom in my house doesn’t have a door, but it has a window: a portal to the roof, to solace. The roof was the only place I felt I had privacy even though at the same time, it meant I was completely exposed to the world. Nobody knew who I was as they saw me up there, but I still felt powerful. I could think and I could scream and feel and slam my fists against the grainy slabs of roof and I could breathe. I could peel off skin from the soles of my feet and hands that burned on the summer-soaked black tar. Sometimes I just needed a breath of fresh air. Could I fly? If I found a jumper baggy enough? I’ve contemplated jumping into the air to see what it would feel like to glide away in the blue sky. I slept there once, in a dew-painted, light blue beanbag chair. Light pollution clouded my starlight. I guess you have to go higher up for that. Maybe when I fly.