After such public disasters, my mother would
put her hands on my shoulder, but the gesture,
marred by her anger at my inability to control this simple tic,
would cause her hand to tighten into the same vise,
reminding me again of my wings.

I do have wings.

Whatever shrouds me from the world--
they are heavy and waft me downwards,
into a warm black pool--they weigh me
down but their span is so wide
that I will never drown--
these are what I call wings.

At the bottom of this pool is a glass casket.
I crawl into this and sleep.
I sleep for days, like a lungfish, curled up.
No amount of blows or threats can get me up.
My blankets are pervaded with the odour
of sleep, feathers, sickness and sweat.
I am suffocating myself.

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