bandaging bird wings

Aika Adamson

i. love 


              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. 


ii. loss 

              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 

              Her, 

              No wonder she had to leave.


iii. life 


              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.

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