Baby Wings

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 let me grow

beautiful, feathered wings.

Then one day—

when generations of trauma

nested in my body,

sparking unimaginable

physical and emotional agony—

my wings snapped.

I crawled home,

bleeding, weeping,

led by the promise of safety.

What I found was cold,

callous.

Slowly, I learned

I was a stranger in my own home—

flightless,

afraid.

I began to see myself

through your eyes.

My bleeding materialised

as self-inflicted scars.

No number of professionals

telling me

I was carrying a weight

too heavy for any one body

could reach you.

No one could will you

into pride.

No one could make you admit

that the one who gave me life

also birthed me

full of volatile pain.

After years of

living between life and death,

I have learned

to mop up my own blood—

gather it,

cup it carefully,

and pour it back into my veins.

I love you and I have grieved you

despite your heart

still beating.

Now I am flying

on the baby wings

I am nursing,

held aloft

by the family I have made.

Blood is not

thicker than water.