The pain.
Bones cracking,
Skin tearing,
Blood pouring.

The screams.
Of an angel,
Of a demon,
My own.

The monster.
I used to be,
I was meant to become,
I created.

To resist
Or to accept,
The wings
I cannot see?

To trust myself,
To hope for white feathers,
To grow out
Dark roots of my own?

Never to see them,
Never to touch,
But spread them wide
And learn to fly.