wounded bird

with broken wings

wounded bird...
children with bent wings. 

they snap gum and wear black, afternoons are spent in front of a mirror, doing makeup in breaking sunlight, and I journal in the sound of jingling piercings. 
There is meaningless chatter. 
what do I write baaaack? (nothing, honestly)

there's a huge, empty space in my heart that's only filled with children. They heal me in ways I don't want to iterate. and here, there are so many of them 
so I call them my babygirls and wrap them in big hugs that they can find nowhere else. I stroke their womanchild faces and curly, shiny, soft hair and I try not to cry. 

but tears inevitably move across my face (sideways sometimes, in the wind) as I try to navigate this web of wounded children. The smell of infection fills the air as they speak to me. They tell me their mothers do not love them and their fathers are distant, unreachable mountains. They utter the words said to them by those meant to protect them and I am horrified, but they only laugh. 

hayirsiz evlat. useless child. Neden böylesin? 
I am being wrenched in two. Doesn’t it hurt? I ask. They smile at what they deem my naïveté but there is still pain behind their eyes, like bloody puncture wounds that have half healed over. These things are hard to wipe away, but I try my hard to be of use. 

I tell them they are good and they are beautiful and they do not believe me, whatever I say, but there is a certain desperation in their eyes as they hang on to my every word and touch. I see big eyes following along as I move around the room, speaking to them mindlessly about happy things. 

What can I do but hold them and try not to cry? It hurts and I ask my Lord to protect them forever and ever. 

Protect my wounded birdies with your endless mercy, oh Lord. Give peace to their little hearts...

(it's gonna be okay. in the end, it will be alright.)