The windmills can't blow me away anymore.
I guess that's one good thing.
I try not to look at my wings
they're broken and torn.
My feathers have all been pulled out
by pretty people
so they can put them in their hair,
sew pretty clothes
out of the silky filaments.
The thin, hollow bones
of my lovely wings
have been crushed and cracked,
like a piece of metal
that's all bent and twisted.
I tried to fly against the wind.
You told you would stop the wind for me,
but you were too late.
The damage had already been done.
I remember how I used to
wrap my wings around you
and shelter you from the cold.
Now it is you who is keeping me warm,
as you try to make me feathers
out of Egyptian cotton,
as you try to mend the bones
with white glue.
I remember when you first saw
what they did to my wings
you immediately got started
cutting so many little feathers out of paper
and taping them to my broken bones.
But your paper feathers were so beautiful
that the pretty people took them again
to put in their hair.
They were angry when they found out
that these feathers were not real
so they gave me one thousand little paper cuts
and told me that artificial beauty
needed to be punished,
while they touched the feathers—
my feathers—
in their hair
making sure that they were still in place.
As I cried in your arms,
you told me that it didn't matter
I didn't have wings
you would show me the beauties of the earth.
You told me I was still beautiful
without my wings
but I still don't believe you.
The windmills can't blow me away anymore.
I guess that's one good thing.