The true fantasy is to fit into every box. To mold to every shape. To be as I should, to act as I must. The parts are wrong, the sound isnt quite right. there is something rotten growing underneath. strip away the things that make you angry. peel back the little things that twist your stomach in knots. dig your nails into the premature thing writhing in the dark, where the light of day has never seen.
two small, featherless wings sprout from its back. It breathes sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss************* quitely taking up as little space as the world will allow. With each inhale it croaks. it can't even know you're holding it. amniota makes it shine against the early sun. This is something you can grow. This is the thing you can change.
in no time at all it crunches between your fingers. Whatever once brought it life runs sticky and warm between your fingers and down your wrist, drippping from your elbow. All that's left is to put it back where you found it.
it is so much easier this way. finally it's perfect. finally it makes sense. Finally its yours.