Wings
It gripped me, all of a sudden, in the middle of a familiar and simple task. A deep and abiding desire to be alone. So, bleary eyed I wandered the sunwashed streets and ended up on a grassy knoll, staring at a indent of rock and metal. My features extended into points, sharp crisp and pure in spite of the yellow light of the daystar. Cold, hard, brittle, limbs of alabaster framed upon a canvas of black feathers. I am the thing from which poetry is written, the mythic body ideal presented in magazines of long limbs and prominent features. But no comfortable words are written about me. An obsession, some momentary joy, no one writes about the boy with the sharp features in the context of longevity, marriage, trust. Discarded as an unattainable and unhealthy ideal, I live in this body every day and do nothing to keep it that way. My bones will always brush sharply upon my clothes, I need no eating disorder to keep this form. Poetry of love, longer love, love that you will stay with, love that endures, always entails soft edges and comfortable padding. I have none of these, am I denied anything but a moment's glory? Will I always be the other?