#i do not even...

[thefelts4leafclover-blog]

I think someone waits for me to get on Pesterchum so they can irritate me.

[brutus-the-great-and-powerful]

To Andrea

At a reading you once wondered

how many women could feel

the tingling of their amputated wings.

In school I often daydreamed of wide wings.

When mine had already been ruined.

-

My feathers torn and left

spiraling in the wind.

-

I waited years for the feathers to grow back,

tried to convince myself that it had been a molt.

And not some battery cage ritual.

-

I started

gathering feathers from other broken birds,

mothers killed by traffic,

fledglings killed by windows,

others by the cold.

Their taped on feathers never had a chance of bearing my weight.

-

Faulty flight and bleeding wings

cut me off from those unaware,

and my bridges were always becoming piers.

-

Fast-forward four years,

I am a sophomore in high school.

My legs are rich in too straight lines.

It is one year since I decided

not to pull the trigger.

-

For the record I never touched the gun.

But I didn't need to touch it to make my choice.

-

I will get through this,

and I will live.

-

It was the first real promise I made.

-

I've been re-feathering my wings on music,

and on art.

The words that I write compose feather shafts and fibers,

that erupt into life each time my pen bleeds.

To give form to my thoughts,

each time a keyed sentence clicks,

when the charcoal is finally black enough,

each time a note rings out like a song bird.

-

Now.

It's a long time coming,

but I'm starting

to feel like flying.