Grooming My Feathers

It’s too late.
Many years were spent huddled
to my side of the mattress.
Pillow clutched to my breast
instead of your head.
Concentrated effort quieted the sobs
storming through my being.
Willing stillness to come to my body
so despair wouldn’t be felt trembling
against the pristine sheets.

Too much time has passed
held in inertia’s grip.
Tired of this routine,
languishing in a bed of inattention
holds no comfort.
Ready to take flight.
I’ve been grooming my feathers.
Yes, my lips are more defined.
I wear lipstick now; cherry cordial
tastes so sweet.
Waist is slimmer, eyes brighter.
That’s hope you see
mixed with self awareness;
my personal cocktail
goes down so smoothly;
stirred, not shaken.

Ignoring my needs didn’t make them disappear.
Self-discovery is a poignant process.
It’s your turn now.
You can’t prevent the outcome
or change it by chanting fancy phrases
and giving beautifully wrapped gifts.
Empty symbols echo hollow promises.
You had many chances
to make your nightingale sing.
She is fleeing while composing
a sacred song to guide her journey.
The hymn is memorized, the voice trained;
a solo act exploring azure skies.
Watch her soar.