jul22 / a poem i would have written when i was 16

my shoulders hold an unabiding soreness
so thick and deep i am convinced
there are wings coiled inside them
waiting to push through the skin

waiting to unfurl weakly
and hang naked down my back
barely able to lift themselves

they won't molt or shed
but grow steadily until they fall out
completely

baby teeth
leaving wet holes
for stronger versions of themselves
to work their way out of