I am dripping milkweed,
bent over clover and broken back.

When will this flutter of promises,

hopes I was never given but
manifested in my spine just the same,

emerge and take shape?

I am told what I have formed

is somehow
good enough.

It is not
good enough.

I desire the simplicity;
I want so much less
than what I have become.

I never asked for these wings.