My Life In Word

Clipped

I loved you
with my whole heart,
my whole soul—
the way eagles trust air
without questioning the sky.

At first, I soared.
Wide-winged.
Unapologetic.
I carried light in my feathers.

You didn’t break me all at once.
You learned better.

You clipped one wing
with a joke that landed sharp,
another with a look that said
don’t be so much.

You trimmed feathers
with silence,
with withheld warmth,
with affection rationed like mercy.

A word here—
too sensitive.
A pause there—
not tonight.

You dulled my lift
with comparisons,
with doors half-closed,
with the careful way you forgot me
in rooms full of others.

You shoved when no one was watching.
You nudged me toward smaller spaces.
You taught me to apologize for air.

Then came the betrayal—
not sudden,
but precise.
A blade between ribs
where trust nests.

Each cut was small enough to deny.
Each loss reasonable, you said.
Until flight felt dangerous
and stillness felt like survival.

One day I looked down
and the ground was always there.

No sky.
No wind.
Just bars shaped like love
and a cage I helped decorate.

I used to circle mountains.
Now I pace.

From eagle
to bird
to silence.

And the cruelest part—
you never locked the door.

You just convinced me
I could no longer fly.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Dyana Wing So on Unsplash

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