I burned my old skin on this day.

I had no excuse to exist until the sun rose. There was peace and solace, which until then were both empty words. I felt my flesh shiver under its rays.

I took my first living breath.

I found my old skin, housed it in a pyre, and lit it. It was putrid anyway and to burn it gave me peace. My legs are shaking but I’m standing. I feel a tiny moth of a heartbeat. I don’t have long until my shape is no longer malleable. A change is coming, and it will not be undone.

One more thing to remove. To possess both wings and horn together is a blessing I do not deserve. I ponder: Which, or both, shall I remove before this unknown change is final?