pensamientos

Me arranqué las alas.

Memory obscures if they were ever perfect.

People clawed as they grew,

more so as they bled.

Still I’d stitch them back together,

time growing shields of armour,

red stains slowly turning black.

And when hope filtered in like poison,

destroying black back white,

undoing the guard,

I painted and presented them gold.

And he didn’t ruin them, 

he stared at the light reflecting off them in indifference. 

Years of mending for what?

Maybe he saw past the beauty,

 and witnessed a rotting inside.

I rip them off myself,

and let myself fall from the sky,

and when ground reaches me,

I hope I finally find peace.