when i was a baby, my nanny held my hand to the ceiling fan

growing wings (anarchy april #1)

i suppose it’s just like growing a tooth. something hard from something soft. and when you think about it, i’ve always walked with a curve to the spine. i don’t know what it’s made of. i knew a girl whose spine was made from bubble gum and when her wings came in, they were made of steel and dragged behind her, sad and heavy. and she was never happy again or so they say. anything can be a horror story. if only you’d just change a name, a factor, a time of day. when i was a baby, my nanny held my hand to the swirling ceiling fan. almost. my sister barged in and saved me and now i have to save the world forever and ever and ever. why the hands? why would she wish the spray of baby cartilage? our living room would have been forever marred but my sister stopped it. sweet, sweet sister. i was born to write or so they say. if not, why the hands? i have a story to tell, something to hold onto. and i like other things too, like football and shoulder pads but these things don’t tell a good story. or worse, they don’t tell a story at all. the hands. the ceiling fan. the writer. i hope my hands are chopped off my body when i die and someone puts them in a museum. but you don’t write with your hands, a friend of mine once said. you write with your brain. i told him to put my brain against a blade and he said no. pussy. see. it’s the hands. its always the hands. when you think about it, hands are spiders you can control. not that anyone ever wanted a spider they could control but still. i like the movement, the joints of them, the handiness of them. i hope my hands never go away. i must write write write. i am a writer but no one wants to buy what i write. no one yet. i visit my sister and although she loves me and doesn’t want to see me hurt, she tells me the truth. she lied. there was no nanny holding my hands to the ceiling fan. i’m not special at all. i suppose you do write with your brain. and my hands are just h¹ands. everyone has them. i am not special. so yes, anything can be a horror story. if only you’d just change a name, a factor, a time of day. if only you’d just change the story. the next morning, i really did hold my hands to the ceiling fan. almost. i hated them. but i wasn’t special enough to let them go. to do that damage. to be extraordinary. my wings finally came in. and oh dear, they’re a terrible, spidery thing. a terrible, spidery thing. a terrible, spidery thing. a terrible, spidery thing. a terrible, spidery thing. a terrible spidery—

1. piece inspired by

sonja ringo

’s april poetry prompts!