There is this in
within me,
where I have tattooed
black stars.
They are where the in
within me
reaches out to come out,
where I am feather and hollow bone.
Where I am not
as sturdy as I look,
but where I am delicate
and fragile,
a piece of overblown glass.
My wings are not made
for an eagle,
but instead, a butterfly,
and you snap them
every time
you curl your hands around me,
every time you try
to make me yours,
even if
I want you to.





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