Tiny nubs poke just above my shoulder blades,
Bound, restricted, cut, bloodied, plucked, strapped to my body
Underneath a façade of stiletto prestige.
The shadow of my subconscious silently commands:
Every blood feather
Every bit of down comfort
Painfully pulled at the root
So frequently that it goes completely unnoticed.
Until the day it stopped…suddenly
The day the shadow went silent.
A cone of grace formed
All around me
With a complete sense of peace.
Slowly, v e r y s lo w l y
The bloodied nubs formed scabs
And scabs gave rise to tiny quills
Which birthed new blood feathers
And puffs of down comfort.
And after all of these years,
I realized that the tiny nubs
that poked just above my shoulder blades
weren’t nubs at all.
Instead, I discovered
that inside my cone of grace,
through time and s l o w healing
I had been given wings
so long ago
that I don’t even remember
when forgot how to fly.
We all have wings-
Yet to be discovered.
What would happen
if we stopped restricting them
and just let them grow?