moonlights rests in the
knots of your spine.

a silent type of
magic,
you are.

you shed your skin,
your scars, your stories
handing them over
to the lifeless,
prosaic masses
that have watched your
every move for
twenty long years.
you say to them,
"here,
you can have this,
i don't want it
anymore."
.
you grow wings where
wounds once lived,

they cut audibly through
the air as you take flight.

eyes all speckled
with latent constellations.

homebound,
you are.