They are the only ones who keep me down. I am the only one who can fight them. Two broken wings with shattered bones and slender feathers. Two who cannot fly but don’t give up. Two fragile excuses not to soar. On my back I can feel them, but they just hang there and I can’t help but cry.

Their might is secret. They hold me down beneath the clouds. They get ragged and they tatter and keep the ground within my reach and hold me down and never heal. This is how they hurt me.

Let one heal and with time they’d both strengthen like steel, each as unbreakable as the other. Hurt, hurt, hurt, wings shatter as I cry. They withhold.

When I am too broken and too hurt to keep being withheld, when I am a withering flame against an ocean of pain, then I look to my wings. When there is nothing left to help me in this world. Two who mend despite the rigor. Two who heal and do not forget to heal. Two whose only reason is to strive and to strive.