The Ghosts Upon My Back

I want my wings.

I'm trying to climb out of this place,
This dark that has clipped and torn and pulled out my feathers.
Beautiful feathers woven of innocence and blind belief,
With quills of tear hardened resolve and a wingspan strengthened by how swiftly I've had to fly in order to escape reality.

I want my wings back.

The ghosts protruding from my back are weak and fallible.
They want to be wings, but wings lift you.
These useless things weigh me down, make me heavy.
I am heavy and I cannot climb out of this darkness.

I find menial hope here and there,
Reasons to wait through the dark night to greet the sunshine,
But my feathers grow back slowly.
They grow differently.
They grow with great determination, with wills I didn't know I had.

Wills for others outside of myself
Wills to be strong enough to lift them, us.
To give us hope.
Wills to lift myself,
To escape breezes made of pretty lies and forced morals.

I must climb out of this darkness.

My quills seem to come in more painfully this way, but I shoulder it.
Embrace it.

I must have my wings.

I need to fly out of this place,
This angry pit of shame dug by cons and tricks.
I was deceived into believing that the only way forgiveness can be given is to make payment,
To shore off wings, to sacrifice sons.

The feathers blossoming on these heavy ghosts of mine are pale gold
They are silver and rose colored
Brilliant and shining.
Strong.

I will fly again. I will have wings.

Wings borne, not of innocence, but of knowledge.

Wings strong enough to make me free.