wings

Square one; I lay my body to rest and death cradles my figure with the scent of blood on its breath. I no longer mind the unpalatable metallic tang on my tongue.

I’ll always loathe the way it’s adamant against taking me first. My grief is a pair of wings that grows into my guts, unable to break through the barrier of skin. Inwards, twisting, they bloom through my sternum–

Impaling a heart that beats too quickly for its own good.