unfoldment
like wet wings
fresh from the coccoon
you are born:
heavy
and strange
and vulnerable.

impossibly clinging
and shivering,
the air is aswarm
with accusation and
a questioning
of your being:

"what right have you?
how dare you live?
aren't you ashamed?"

at first, it is easy
to ball inwards
like lips sucked in teeth
or a fist holding nothing
saying "yes yes yes" to everyone
while something inside
silent "no's."

but, despite your efforts,
there is a drying
and an unfoldment
that you cannot hide
as inevitable as flowers
opening to sun and sex and death
or eyes to eventual blindness.

and now you are clinging desperately
not from the weight of wings
but the weight of the wind that catches them.

hold on, how you try,
but you can't.

never had a choice,
never had a chance
against what you could not resist:

yourself.