When I was young I saw a bird break it's wings
I took it home with me and slept it with it on my chest
I still wake up and hear it's wings fluttering in my ears
I couldn't fix it, and ever since I've never been enough
I have spent a lifetime trying to fix every broken wing I find
Housed the flightless birds and waited for my redemption
I have weighed my worth against their ability to heal
But my chest is not a nest, nor my bed a sanctuary
And perhaps it is not me that is broken, it is just their wings