You gather all the things close to you
Hold them tight to your chest and
Rock back and forth, clutching.
You sing to yourself while you
Hold the items in the confinement
Of the darkness.
You think that
If you clutch them tightly enough
Give them none of the room to breathe
Ignore their wails of insecurity in spite of your huddling to keep them secure
That they will all continue to love you.
But I am made of different stuffings
And I was given wings without clippings
And when you hold me while simultaneously imagining I am not there
I bite your hand
And I flee.
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