They all start with white wings.

I don’t know what happens

but they never stay white.

 

Mine faded to an ashy gray by my eighth

birthday.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

 

Some of them break.

Sometimes in the

middle of flying.

 

I guess we pretend we’re innocent,

pretend we’re better,

pretend we’re whole.

 

I’m sick

of pretending.

Poetry

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