I was always weary.

There is an ache
in the spaces inside my bones
that makes me sure
I am only a bird
kept from flight by the
weight
I bear.

My hands and lips are
rough
like his never were
and he called them
beautiful when he held them
but I knew better than to trust anyone
who hadn't felt enough
pain to nurse a callous.

So call me callous
I am
but all too often I wonder
what good
my wisdom did me
in my proud youth.

Trees and vines
with branches wide and winding
are the closest to kin I dared
find when mine were far from sight
and I was always afraid
that meant my
roots
were built for nothing
but standing strong.

But I know better
now
that I've ripped
those delicate things free.

I don't think you'll believe
me
but I swear
I'm closer to a bird
than I've ever been and I'm
further from flight
than I thought
I'd ever be.