I used to have wings of gossamer-
Beautiful, translucent crescents
That decorated my shoulder blades
And shifted in glimmers of light.
I used to have a soul of kaleidoscopes,
Ever-changing shards of color
Emerging
Converging
Diverging
Emerging.
I used to have a heart of feathers.
Light, promising, every snowy kiss
A caress of hope.
I used to have the hands of a composer:
Words alighted on my fingers, and I
Played their notes
Onto the black and white keys:
Plummeting, soaring, waltzing, spinning,
Crests of tides and swells of waves.
They were mine, and I was theirs.
I used to hold miracles in my eyes.
Touch me-and I'll fly away.
They emerged from the mist one day,
Chains and shackles wound
In grasping hands,
Honey-coated daggers
Curled in plump, poisoned tongues.
I should have seen.
I should have known.
I should have run.
But I didn't see the footprints of red
They left behind in the crisp white snow
Until
It was over.
They pushed me under crushing depths,
The weight of water
Wringing my lungs
Paralyzing my legs
Forcing shut my screaming, panicked eyes.
They pushed me under crushing depths,
But I was meant to fly.
I didn't think I would survive.
I didn't want to.
I tried so hard, so hard to
Let go.
But I was cursed.
I should have known.
Over time, oragans bloomed
Like film in water:
A shadow lung, a paper heart.
They kept me alive.
Barely. Not enough.
But I existed, still,
Drifting in the space between
Life
And Death.
Not blessed with the gift of either.
Shallow, opaque,
Drawing
Shallow air through crippled grey petals.
Outside, they shoved me in the spotlight-
Applauding, delighting, grinning
For the echoes of what I used to be.
For the magic I used to work.
And I guess I couldn't really blame them.
So I tried to smile, smile back at their
Dead-fish eyes
And glossy teeth.
But my lips, they betrayed me.
Inside, I was a shadow amongst shadows.
Sometimes I wonder
How my soul can be crushed
Like a butterfly in mortar.
How I can live
When the fire in my soul
Is extinguished.
How I can stay
Even though I am fading-
And I am. Fading.
Look at my veins, and you will see them
Running blue
Beneath my papery skin.
Other times, I wonder
If the me I used to be
Still exists-
Somewhere, somewhere,
Not inside me;
I have long ceased to hope-
But, perhaps,
Somewhere, somewhere
On the whispers of wind
In the creases of time
In a parallel universe.
Most of the time, though,
I am sure-
I am certain,
Almost certain
That she has died.
Because
They have stripped me of my color
They have turned my wings to ashes
And if you touch me,
Touch me,
Touch me- and I'll dissapate.
