Flying


Her wings had slowly torn off her skin.
It started with an experiment:
"If I tug one feather, what will happen to the wing?"
One by one, the feathers fell to the ground
in a pile
reaching the height of her unshaved calves,
they were little golden hairs,
no one could even see them,
they didn't need to be uprooted.
She would listen to music about overcoming demons,
she thought they were inspiring her,
but she was being consumed.
When the wings were mere spouts
she didn't have the patience to let them grow again.
She grabbed them,
exposing her bloody knuckles, skin peeling,
she yanked them off.
"This is the last straw!"
her voice shook.
And she was gone.

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