I broke my wings in a fall from grace
by Dia Roth
My dad walked in and caught me smoking from an open window. I flicked the lipstick-stained cigarette quick and held my breath, but wisps of smoke leaked from my nose and he knew. We made eye contact through the blue haze. When he cast his gaze down I heard a snap, felt a sharp pain in my back. The room heavy with disillusionment, I leapt from the window, expecting to soar off as I usually would, free as a— well, you get it. But my wings, broken as they were, crumpled under my weight. The overgrown hedges below the window softened my fall, tumbled me out onto the lawn. The cigarette lay next to me, still burning slowly, singeing blades of grass as fire crept towards the stained trace of my lips.
Dia Roth (they/them) is a poet living and working in Seattle. Their poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Ghost City Review, Verse of April, DEAR Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Dia wishes they could spend all their time submerged in bodies of water, rivers and oceans in particular. Unfortunately, they haven’t yet managed to grow gills. You can follow them on Twitter and Instagram @diaroth____.