I tied together the pieces of my bones into a cage.

I died tonight, another life lost in a scathing rage.

Sunrays embraced me only in my nightmares.

Yet they forge my tears into blades,

and pluck my feathers one by one.

They grin at my bleeding wings.

I hate it for being broken.

I hate being at a stranger’s mercy.

What use are the bare bones of my wings?

With no feathers, with no rights,

Wings, not a tool for my freedom,

But a curse that fills my burned eyes with hope,

Once again, I trust the glimpses.

Of possibility, a cage-free future,

The greenery grounds me and calls to my broken self.

Even if I am a frail bird with a stolen life,

Of all the lost lives, the lives that one shined,

It shone brighter than mere stars.

Although they are free, they are dead.

Oh, Death, I see him now.

This time, I will be his bride.

Not due to the blood I shed.

Not by the chains shackling my remaining breaths.

Not by the blades that consume my bones, flesh, and feathers.

Not by the cage I built around myself.

Not by the burning heat of the sun.

But by the hatred they sowed inside me,

Hatred of my existence and a collective, we,

As a passerby, a prisoner, and a purpose

I want to at least once.

Regardless of death, even if he demands my pain as a dowry,

With nothing left to lose, I want to try.

Soar with my clipped wings.

I press the blades that throw

Deep down into my bare wings,

My wings are embellished with moonlight.

I will slice and silence the words.

That taunts me with lies and truths.

My wings shatter the cage.

With the blades that were once thrown at me,

And I carved the bones of my past self.

into armour, protecting my wounds.

As I am both the armour and the wound,

I can no longer deny my love.

For myself, my past and the vast blues,

I am a bird, a frail bird.

Oh, but I can fly, fly high,

Above this cage, above their cruelty masked as love,

With a newfound fondness for uncertainty,

To break free of the chains, I shattered my legs.

I no longer require them because I was born to fly.

Regardless of the weight of my pounding heart,

I dive, dive into the air.

I may crash.

I may fly.

Oh, the possibility thrills me.

My mother’s words echo in the wind.

"Hope is cruel, but a necessity for freedom."

Blood covers the blades with my name.

My wings are slicing the air.

Spread into the wings of my dream,

I am flying, flying high,

Towards the moon and winking stars,

I am alive, lest I be caged.

At last, I am alive and free.

© Swaathy