who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be
beautiful
who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals

that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin
sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls
clicking their bony fingers

envying our crackling hair
our spice filled flesh
they have heard me beseeching
as I whispered into my own

cupped hands
enough not me again
enough
but who can distinguish
one human voice
amid such choruses of desire

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