Baby Wings

Why did you leave me?
 Why did you decide I was too much
when I was barely enough for myself to hold on to?

You were my favourite person in the world. 
Your love allowed me to grow beautiful, feathered wings.
 One day, when generations of trauma and pain nested in my body, 
sparking unimaginable physical and emotional agony,
my wings snapped.

I crawled home, bleeding and weeping, 
led on by the promise of safety.
What I found was cold and callous,
and slowly I learned I was a stranger in my own home—
flightless and afraid.

I began to see myself through your eyes,
and my bleeding materialised as self-inflicted scars. 
No amount of professionals telling me
I was carrying a load too heavy for anyone to bear
could get through to you.
 No one could will you into being proud of me,
or into admitting that maybe
the one who gave me life
also birthed me full of volatile pain.

After months of living between life and death,
I have learned to mop up my own blood, 
gather it,
 and pour it back into my veins.

I have grieved you
 despite your heart still beating.

Now I am flying
on the baby wings I am nursing, 
held up by the family I have made.

Blood is not thicker than water.