Fledgling

The itching and resulting scratching, maddening
blaze in two patches on my back
two, one on each side of my spine

Inverted teardrops
Blood colored and raw

The itching and scratch fighting continue.
Mind recoils at the signs of impending transformation.

Pain, release of pressure
a small birth of mirrored twins

Returning to my true form.
Have been called an angel (a daemon)
Fae is a more welcoming philosophy, though a more isolated one.
What do you call a person (if that’s what I am) with wings?
Feathered wings of mottled pigeon grey
Flecked with iridescent in the right light
Immaterial and solidly with purpose simultaneously

Does this being, this becoming portend some greater purpose?
Do I have to choose sides, loyalties again?
If so, this time I choose me
To fill my own cup
Take my own space
If my wings bother you, there is an exit in the back.

No one is asking you to bear witness.
I am my own witness.
My wings are what they are
no opinion will change or invalidate what is.

Your blessings and curses just noise
deflected easily with a swish of motion
a feather may brush your face like a kiss.

Becoming is all I have room for
Becoming is all that I am
All that I will be

And before you tell me what you see
what you want,
what you know

Let me just be.
I am almost ready to fly.