They say,

I’m an angel,

with broken wings.

Green-eyed,

Limpy,

So verminous.

As if my different wings,

Are the justification for their wrongdoing.

They gaze,

At my fragmentary wings

From the sky high above.

As if my different wings,

Are the reminder of their beauty.

They repair,

My dreadful wings

With feathers that don’t belong to me.

Intolerable weight pressured my breaking bones.

They embellish,

My unbearable wings,

With roses fully blooming.

Thorns pierced through my bleeding heart.

They ignore,

With smile,

My vociferous cry of pain.

“But I don’t want feathers.”

“I don’t need roses to ruin my natural wings.”

They tell their children joyously,

This poor thing,

Finally got her complete wings.

They refuse,

To hear,

My subdued whisper of pain.

“But I can always fly.”

“I like my different wings.”

Their children are singing cheerfully,

That poor thing,

Finally got her beautiful wings.

I finally got my beautiful wings.

But why I did lose the ability to fly?