If were to have wings


If I were to have wings
i wouldn't get fancy coloured feathers
and adorn them with sparkling glitters
like the one you see in fairytales
Instead, I would go back in time,
search through my rugged homeland
and pick up the withered feathers dipped in blood and muck,
carrying the geneology of women suppressed and oppressed
sticking them together with a hard paste
made of embracement and affection
staining the places I visit with their stories
scarring the ones who listen with empathy
and preaching the ones who throw spite
My wings will not smell like silly perfurmes or roses
hut will reek of rebellion
and of the strong spices which we've been grinding in the kitchen
for what seems like an eternity
making your throat clench and eyes water
I'd ask all the ignorants to be careful around my wings
for their fragile skin would be slashed
by the pieces of cries and anguish jutting out
and my wings would utter words
sharp enough to slice their ignorance
and make them sick and nauseated
of their own pity self

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