I want to be lovely and soft
to make sweet little paper birds.
But I make creatures
unnatural things
monstrous.
Things that crumble in my hands
The more I try to hold them.
Running like sand through my fingers.
They are reviled and shunned,
my beloved.
I hold my paper bird as her too short life slips away
all wet breaths and limp wings.
she never got to fly.
she was only misery.
It was all I had to give her.
A life
and my love
and the leaden misery that I am.
I crack open as she finally leaves me.
YOU ARE READING
Black Box
PoetryOriginal poems, much like a plane's black box, documenting the moments leading up to an explosive disaster.
