I like to believe I’m strong,

In the way that a maimed dove believes it can fly.

It should be in my blood,

Woven into my veins like a melody.

Some part of me still believes,

That flight is possible.

I’m not strong.

I’m fragile, easily fragmented glass,

That draws blood when broken.

I was forged of iron and flame once,

But my soul shatters at the slightest touch,

Icicles gouging my insides.

My heart dreams, oftentimes,

That if my wounds are left untended,

Til they become moldy with rot,

Til I harden into stone or even diamond,

I might one day bleed daggers,

Instead of tears and loss.