I’m 24, with a hand on my hip

a sideways heart and angel wings

tattered and torn..

Don’t try and domesticate me,

or take me under your plastic wings

to mend me.

For God shines light through my holes.

Every soul is born an angel

slowly learning tricks and easy fixes

and how to walk with no handlebars.

What a gift childhood can be.

But try and give a 4 year old

the weight of the world,

dangling at her fingertips.

Or a 12 year old brat a secret to keep

that will kill her belief in righteousness.

Or a 16 year old drunk a family to repair,

a mother to save, a father to forgive,

siblings, emotions and life in between

all as she’s trying to sprout her own feet.

——I just got exhausted listing off life——

Wings are meant for safety;

but when they’re spread for the sick

The young giver is left empty nested.

Bruised, alone and dark,

I tend not to trust even the brightest of things.

God feels this way, I suppose, about his lost sheep

waiting to be heard, waiting to be seen.

His voice comes through the cracks

hoping to finally make me whole

A bruised and baby angel,

He carries the worlds weight for one soul.

So when you say “I’ll be there”

but I’m left in the crowd—

or promise me honesty....rings

but I’m crying to fill a drought;

Don’t worry–

my wings can fly, my heart can beat

because bruised and beaten angels

are made to rest under Gods’ wings.