My wings are bare swan bones
grotesquely sprouting from
between my shoulder blades.

I cannot fly.

They are bloody with strips of
burst flesh clinging
to cartilage, splintered
at the tips from spearing
loose ends.

Stay with it.
Keep going.

No down or contour or flight
feathers. Nowhere to hide.

I clench to spread them
fan them out over my head
now dripping and sticky
with pieces of my back
falling into my curls.

Nowhere to hide.

Hideous and joyful and terror
embracing what I cannot.

Turn me over slowly in your mind.
I cannot cartwheel for you.

My red wing bones scar my shoulders.
I cannot flap. I am not broken.