Walking Angel

You depend so much on my angel wings

that you’ve started to pluck out the feathers by holding on too tightly.

Every bunch that you pull out leaves spotty patches,

In which you start to rub salt into my wounds with every toxic word you spit.

When my feathers grow back you repeat your vicious cycle,

You obsess over wanting to control every aspect of me.

The way my feathers grow, the colour, the texture.

But now instead of plucking my wings, you’ve clipped them down.

Depriving me of any freedom I once longed for.