when you first found me, my wings were plucked raw. your skin was scabbed and bleeding. i cried into your wounds to cleanse them. my downy fluff is growing back now, before too long i might take wing. i want to taste the sea-breeze, but how can i when i've become your skin and bone, plastered on top of your slowly healing heart? his thorny tendrils are still in there and if you breathe too hard you might bleed. my fresh feathers are drenched, but i keep my breast close enough to you that you can't, won't see. so when the time comes, i'll take that plunge. you can jump with me or find some other poor sod to wipe up your blood. you won't be risking much. you know that even if we don't fly i will always break your fall. will you nurse me? set every porcelaine bone and bathe me, feed me? will you leave me for dead? or will you do the kind thing and snap my neck?
i’m writing this on the 27th of january 2017 and setting it to post exactly one year from now.
