bandaging bird wings
Something soft cupped in my hands,
held steady by my fragile bird-bones,
lighter than dawn and just as sweet.
Peach juice against her lips and mine
are cherry-stained and sour because
I never could compare to her.
Dancing under the weak lights of the
kitchen in the witching hours;
the hurt in me settled under your touch.
You complete me, I whispered against her
bare back, hand in hand beneath the quiet
of the night and she didn’t speak til morning:
I am a companion, not a bandage.
Through choice, not duty, love is forged;
my own wounds lay bare and bloody
when she found me and I saw her haloed
In the sunlight and believed she could fix
me/this/everything so I grasped on with
my calloused hands with
All the grace of the drowning. She held
me and blossomed under my touch; my
heart was only looking for a distraction.
When lost in the hurt, the wound only
grew hungry; it latched onto
No wonder she had to leave.
Memories strung up in my chest like
fairy lights in those dark rooms where
I cried until my tears were only salt.
Her voice was cracked and broken,
goodbye in her language and
mine was silence.
When the night finally passed I could
love her enough to let go;
we save ourselves first then extend our
Hands to the heart, finally gentle.
I heard her forgive me and I kissed her
cheek in apology and for once,
I healed my wounds and sang to the sun.
About the Author
Aika (she/her) is an Okinawan-American writer from Arizona who studies Classics and Linguistics and has too many opinions on Greek tragedies. When not writing, she's found daydreaming, baking, and bothering her dogs. Find her on Twitter @OkinawanAika and Tumblr @aikatxt.