If I’d had my way, I wouldn’t have been born so
female. So human. Instead, I’d have emerged
from the world with wings lifting out
behind me like armor, each feather sharp
as confidence. Bright as conviction.
I would not have had to fight for my right to be
smart. To be certain. To be stubborn. To be choosy.
To be alive.
Angels exist as if there are no boundaries.
There are no gates along their ocean. No waves jailed
against their shores. There are no trees maimed
before all their leaves have reached the sky.
No branches broken in a violent wind.
No storms strike them down for speaking
too loud, too much, too fast. They haven’t fallen,
because they are already higher than the atmosphere.
Dirt can’t touch them. Dirt is unimportant.
They are not stupid, not mercurial, not difficult,
not hysterical, not invisible.
Angels do not hate themselves.
They don’t regret their past, or their hunger,
or their tomorrow.
They don’t wish upon a star.
The stars are their playthings.
Their playground is bigger than the world.
Bigger than the galaxy. Their universe is infinite.
Had I been born in a different universe I wouldn’t have been
lost. I wouldn’t be at war. I wouldn’t crave armor or wings
or stories about angels. I wouldn’t need permission
to be anything at all.
Editor’s Note: As an editor, I feel it’s important to avoid indiscriminate self-publishing, but on one day a year, perhaps you will forgive me (yes, it’s my birthday).