I had an angel wing surgically removed last week, the burden of one thousand lifetimes extracted with it. feathers plucked, one by one hundred, two by two thousand, three by angry fistful—blood, flesh, and soft memory encrusted.
it rests between a lilac bush and the house of my former self—where insects and swallows make use of the remains.
unceremoniously I watch these little pieces of me vanish to an existence of usefulness I could never afford them. the vestiges of a former life built into new things, pretty things, the composted soul, renewed.
—this post was grown on the gram.