I was born with wings splattered with womb blood.
I learned to fly in crimson skies and perch on thorn trees that pierced my feathers. Soon, I was a bald-bodied bird and the wings too big for me. Then, one day, I saw a gilded cage and flew right in.
Ever since then, it has been a story of flying into cages – shining cages, rusting cages, cages that swayed, cages that were bolted, cages I locked myself into.
I feasted my eyes on remorseless air and marveled at its lack of guilt. On a routine morning, I got a gift. Faux feathers with adhesive in a pouch. I glued them on my frame, lean and listless. I was now full. The wings had become brittle. I pecked at the door; the wings were reluctant to take a painful leap. We fell to the floor. It was a hard fall on asphalt. No surface injuries. The wounds were deeper. I tore open my womb. Blood splattered the remnants of wings. Soaked in the warmth, they softened and soared.
We took off – the wings and I. Two entities, together but not one. Whose flight was it?
The feathers started shedding as we got closer to the sun. I was skinned.
As we picked up momentum and reached higher, I could feel the ground. It was a lesson I learned. The higher you go, touch the soil, imagine it. Clouds are not cages you lock yourself into and where you can feed on your own remnants.