I am envious of birds and the way they never seem to be seen dead, how their thread thin porcelain bones break in silence and even sprayed and flayed, their wings still taper perfectly. When they are fallen angels with eyes rotten out of their skulls, they are still angels and I am just ash and cracked ribs. I am concrete break, I am gentle bearing of dead life, I am dulled claws, I am mothers weakness, I am fathers burden, I am small afraid, I am just earthly unworthy.

I am jealous of the albatross, her sleek flight and winged eyes. I am envious of the way she can cut through air and tear through broken clam shell seams, find flesh through rock. I am loathing of her pristine white body, her untouched and unbothered brain. I am looking right at her bold and light breast, the blackest parts of her towards the sun. The rime of her feet is nothing compared to that of mine, the mariner, floating face down in frozen waters that she finds delightful. She is simply angelic, simply heavenly, simply God herself.

Hummingbird tells me child, you are not light enough for flight. My dearest angel your wings are just clipped but oh? Who holds the scissors? He takes off in a gust of sweet summer wind, that I so often chase.

I hear the chickadee calling my name and telling me "Young goddess of pain and power and love, seek not the answer but answer fast to the call of difficulty."