bent feathers and bloodied bones
as I bend into myself in confusion and shame,
when all I have to do is stretch these bitter limbs of flight -
just a little -
a delicate extension of my thoughts beyond their twining knots.
I worry that these self-analyses that lead me to my conclusion are only hollow breakable wings of self acceptance,
prone to cracking under the strain that is lifting my heart's
weight
to somewhere I can allow myself to be me.
Author notes
It's somewhat unpolished, but there is something I like about it.
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