TheFeatheredSleep – taking the counsel and witness of a beloved “toy”.
Listening to the words
In my aching chest of wingless birds
I am afraid
Today I woke and prayed
For a better day
And it didn’t come, though I heard the horses
They were galloping fast, they did not stop
How momma? Do we stay grateful? For every given hour of precious breath?
When scythe of hurt cuts so well and wraps the days away in little vials of hell
How to live in the present, when presently is torture, crushing her toes on pointe?
I try momma, I break the fine bones in my hands in supplicate, my arms making sundials on wanting earth
I ask my toy penguin
He eyes me with the same glass eye he has been using since I was little and he saw me break
And turn to seed and grow back into a girl who recognized he was real
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