We want to be on the stage,
part of the play of flowing clothes and colorful laughter.
But no one gave us permission to be in the spotlight,
so we tuck ourselves in the corner,
and wait for an invitation to breathe.
We want to soar the open skies,
but our wings have become coat hangers
for other people's mistakes.
And it's not our place to brush them off
like motes of collected dust.
There's a place by the fire,
but we haven't earned the right
to warm our frozen bones.
So we curl our toes in the ashes,
and think that leftovers are all we deserve.
There's a kiss waiting at the end of the drive,
packaged in a smile and tied with a promise.
But if our hearts are too small to love ourselves,
how can we accept that
someone else might love our bruises and scars?
We're made of broken hearts and worn out lungs,
because that's all our bloodied hands can shape.
We don't deserve the empty chair at the table,
so we scrape our remains into the shadows,
and slip between the cracks.
(We think it's easiest this way, and forget we're not the only ones with rusted wings)