Birds Of A Feather

By and for Bird-People

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what if i tell you
i knew how to fly, one time?
one time in the future, or maybe in the past?
call it “crazy”, throw your slurs at me
burn it down to a mental illness
delusion, disorder
the problem with *me*
that i dream of flight.
“no,” you say, “the problem is not
that you dream; the problem is that
you dare to believe
your dreams are real”
we are all allowed to exist,
as long as we are small.
no big myths, no legends
no poetry to pour from our backs
to be bigger than bodies:
a sin, a crime
to look at our selves
and see echoes of others
the physical truth,
stamped on our medication
on prescription forms
in your eyes, imagining you can
drug us numb like the movie doctors
get us out of your way
the physical truth,
stamped on our souls
stamped on
you
stamping on us
smaller, smaller
until we are
gone.
only physical truth matters here.
there is no flying for you
in these walls
because we worry what might happen
if you get too
big

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