HOW TO GROW WINGS
For each drop of blood
That leaves your body
With a gaping hole
A bloodied, white feather
Will erupt from the
When you've spilt
And bled enough
You've grown wings
HOW TO GROW WINGS
I always though myself as an angel.
Granted, an angel without wings and an angel that bleeds. I've never
thought of this life being fit for me. I always thought I was far too
fragile, like a paper boat afloat in the sea, I manage to stay afloat and
survive but without my wings to take me to the sky and dry my tears, I can
not continue. I will drown.
I've always wondered where my wings were every time I saw painted portraits
of angels and cherubs with pink, childish faces, they had small, slightly
bulky wings attached behind them. They always wore a somewhat melancholy
expression. They always had such beautiful wings. They never looked tired
or plain and their smiles were gold.
Don't you realize how awful it feels like to go through life incomplete? My
wings, I've waited so long for them, they've never grown. I reach down my
back with my long arm everynight, determined to find even the smallest
indication that I was about to have my wings, but I never had any such
Every angel I've seen has always been amidst clouds and with a bright blue
background to illuminate their presence, as if the sky and clouds could not
comprehend how such a creature had come to their midst. But there it was.
The clouds honored the angels. The clouds let the angels sit on them and
look down at the Earth. The angels know NO BOUNDS. They fly across the
azure blue sky as though there wasn't an easier task.
But I couldn't.
I thought it unfair for an angel to be grounded on this miserable little
planet. Why couldn't I FLY? And I answered my question. I haven't any
At this I despaired. Angels have the greatest joy from the most
insignificant reasons, like the rise of the sun, like the bloom of the
flower, the unbelievable brightness of a faraway star. But with every
sorrow that has them, they bleed. Emotions ran rampant in them and cuts
them into specks of being, dotting the sky.
And they bleed their silver blood.
And I bled. I only wanted wings, a true pair that would aide me in my
flights. And I wished for them every night at every star-rising. But I
could never have them.
And I bled my silver blood.
It covered me till I was soaking, blotted out my skin till I shown in pale
moonlight, a bit crimson with my tears. My blood covered me, enveloping me
in its secure warmth, like I've always wanted to do with my wings.
And I slept, for once my dreams were silent. I woke up in a flurry of
feathers. Crimson, dark crimson feathers beat themselves against me. I
could see the sun through the blood-stained wings that beat themselves
against me. WINGS!
Crimson as the tears, lined with glowing, sterling silver. I beat them
proudly and looked to the sky. I spread them looking and feeling my
feathers soft as cotton against my touch and I took off feeling my heart
beat inside me as the rush of the winds took me.
The clouds greeted me as my new blood-feathers helped me soar to meet them.
And the sorrow-knives that drove at my heart ceased as I felt the golden
glow of the sun.
I was an angel now, the blood that I sacrificed became my wings. All my
sorrow helped me find joy.
And my blood gave me my wings, more splendid as I learned to use them.