Once upon a time, a child,
with golden hair was told
she was too much but not enough:
"Little Miss Always Right," they said
Slapping her forehead with a paper crown.
As the body grew around her wings,
she found she could no longer fly
and as she flapped, her feathers
lacerated the walls of her hanging cage
rattling around, "you're not clever,
this is your own fault,
you'll never get any better"
On your grandad's life -
Painful as it was, a wiser me,
through red mist I never did make out
picked up the feathers for that little girl.
She welded them to my aching ribs
encasing red vessels in molten metal
bitter, vengeful and shouldering a massacre
she found she was practiced
at mopping up blood
spilled by others
with cutting looks
and fatal words
and head splitting caresses in the screaming dark
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