Winged Name
with wings pressed to my sides.
To the one who named me Angel,
You named me something soft.
Something with wings, something that sings—
a name that belongs in halos and lullabies.
You named me Angel,
but never treated me like one.
I grew up choking on that name.
It clung to me like smoke in a burning room—
sweet, pretty, suffocating.
You called me Angel with a voice sharp as broken glass,
hands that never held, only hurt.
I was expected to glow,
but you dimmed every corner of me.
You gave me a name made of light,
then kept me in the dark.
You named me after love
but never gave it.
Not the kind that nourishes, not the kind that stays.
Your love was a storm that passed over and never looked back—
leaving shattered glass, quiet bruises,
and a little girl who wondered
if she had done something wrong
just by being born.
Still—
even with all the wreckage,
I kept my wings.
I stitched them back together
with every kind word a stranger gave,
with every moment I learned to choose myself,
with every night I survived.
You named me Angel.
And maybe now,
just maybe,
I’ll finally grow into it—
not because of you,
but in spite of you.
Because I am still here.
Soft, scarred, and still learning how to fly.
—Angel
(who was always more than you saw)
'Your love was a storm that passed over and never looked back—
leaving shattered glass, quiet bruises,
and a little girl who wondered
if she had done something wrong
just by being born.'
I felt that deeply... you dressed it all in the words so impeccably 💔
Les Murray says something about being stopped in his tracks, while reading poems, and asking "Now why did the poet do that?" This happens all the time. It's part of the code-breaking. When a word or phrase appears that's arresting, it does two things: it challenges my perceptions of seeing/hearing/feeling, and it moves me into new territory. By this I mean an altered state of awareness that's akin to an extended daydream, where all my senses conspire to provide fertile and syntactically engaging words or lines. It happens rarely, but when I'm there I tend to make the most of it, for days sometimes.
This stopped me square in my tracks! It was excellent. A balance so to speak.
Writing poetry is a very physical act. I write with my whole body. I break bread with myself. And I can tell you exerted yourself to write this. I am going to subscribe in the hopes you return the favor. I imagine our bonded will power with these exercises will bear much fruit. Will be reading more soon!