Everybody has wings. Some probably don't know it, yet. Some do. They say that all people have only one wing, so they need other people to help them fly. None can fly without the other.
I know that I have them, too. I'm different from others, because I have a pair of them. Two wings. So, I don't need others to help me fly. They say I'm special. That I'm strong. Because I have two wings, I can fly on my own.
They don't know that one of them is broken.
One of my wings has been broken for a long time now. Was it when I was born, or when somebody harmed me? I can't tell... I failed to remember when or how it happened. But, here it is. It is truly mangled. It is unlike any ordinary injury. A part of it has already started to rot.
There's a part where the feathers have already fallen off. The bones are bared and can be seen.
It's nearly dead. But I was able to hide it with what's left of its feathers. Thankfully, they covered the broken part well. So no one could see it.
My feathers are black like the night. So they couldn't make out the dark blood flowing every now and then from my open wound. I'm glad that it's that color, because when people see it, they fear it and stand in awe and respect. They always fail to see beyond it.
When I try to fly, they stare at me in wonder. Because I can fly alone, unlike most of us who need to cling to another to reach greater heights. And they say I fly well. They didn't know that it almost kills me to even move my wings.
When I open my wings, the wound is reopened as well. The tendons break anew, and my blood flows. My bones get dislocated again, and I can feel them rubbing roughly against each other. I can see more feathers falling. Because of that, I have to fly around and show off a lot of maneuvers even if it's so painful. So that no one will notice the blood and the feathers falling.
The pain nearly paralyses me, but I know that I have to look as if I'm enjoying my flight. We all have to fly, so it's inevitable.
They leave me alone because they think I'm strong. They think my wings are perfect and beautiful. They think I'm indestructible.
Nobody knew that each day that passes by, each night I spent alone, I cry and scream in agony as I try to rest and cure my broken wing. I tried my best to mend it, but
it is futile. Its fate is sealed. Yet, even if it's like that, it's still a part of me. So no matter how much I want to get rid of it, I can't. It is my wing, after all.
The day will come when all of them will fly away to that place where we're all meant to be, with their companions. But by then, my wing will have died. And so I shall be left behind and shall walk alone in this world.
With my dead and broken wing.
isn't it wonderful that you are going to clebrate your birthday without any fancy celebration but somehow you feel very overwhelmed... 
