We tear you from the
still-warm carcass of some
poor, once-feathered thing.
Frail little bone, piece of ribcage.
You are everything.
You are that from which
we are made, from which
all things are made.
(Though Eve betrayed us, we are loathe
to blame the part you played.)
And we will break you.
Because we break all
things that can be broken.
Bones and vows, seals and silence.
But our wishes go unspoken.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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