I was born with Seleouth wings.
Wings they called holy —
wrought in silvered dusk,
feathers soaked in twilight,
stitched from the mourning of a dying god.
They glittered —
so they thought I was chosen.
They glowed —
so they thought I was saved.
But I was claimed.
Not crowned.
Not blessed.
Only bound.
Each plume a chain.
Each shimmer — a wound.
They do not lift me.
They devour me.
Fly, they whisper.
Soar.
Be the miracle they want to believe in.
And so I rise, again and again —
while my bones snap beneath the weight
of their expectation.
They never see the blood in my footprints.
They never hear the cracking silence in my smile.
Wings are supposed to mean freedom.
Mine are prisons dressed in gold.
They do not love me —
they love the idea that I am unbreakable.
But I am breaking.
I have always been breaking.
They gave me a relic of heaven
and carved it into my spine
like a sigil.
Like a punishment.
They say it is beautiful.
But they never carried it.
They say I am lucky.
But they never asked if I wanted it.
I am tired of being divine.
I want to be nothing.
To fall — not in disgrace —
but in choice.
I am not your angel.
I am not your savior.
I am the one who will tear these wings
from my back with my own hands,
and bleed into the dirt
until I am real.
Let them weep for the fallen.
Let them **** me — I will not worship what kills me.
But at last,
let me stand on the earth as myself —
wingless, wretched, and finally
free.