I lost my wings today. Or was it yesterday? Sometimes I can’t tell. Sometimes it feels like I haven’t had them for a very long time. Come to think of it, I’m really not sure when I lost my wings.

When I was little I was always careful to hang on to them. I wouldn’t let anyone touch them. I wouldn’t let anyone near them. They were my wings. Sure people loved to stare at them, but they couldn’t touch them. They were big and beautiful back then, with lots of white feathers. I always kept them white when I was little. I always took the time to clean them and get rid of the black ones. My wings were the most important thing to me.

I was so proud of my wings. I could walk down the street without a care because I knew that everyone saw how beautiful my wings were. Everyone wanted wings like mine back then, I could tell. But I wouldn’t share them. Not ever. I loved them too much to give them away. They were my wings.

I miss my wings now. Sometimes I catch myself reaching back to feel them. But they’re not there anymore.

I started to give my wings away when I got older. Someone that I thought I really loved asked for a feather. It hurt me to take it out, but I knew it would make them happy, so I did. Besides my wings were still big and beautiful without one little feather. “This one’s yours,” I said.

Then more people wanted feathers. They were really pretty. So I shared more. Every time it hurt a little less. I was so surprised. After a while I didn’t even cry when I gave away a feather.

My wings started to get dusty and grey.

I didn’t know I had so many feathers. I could give one to anyone. It still hurt me, but I got really good at pretending it didn’t. Besides “they” were happy.

I wouldn’t cry when I took the feather out anymore, but I would cry later. One night I looked in the mirror and cried for hours. What had happened to my wings? They were small and dirty. Had I really given away that many feathers? I didn’t know what to do. So I took one feather (this one hurt more than all the rest) and placed it in a shoebox. I hid it under my bed. No one would take this feather. It was my feather.

Later I gave the rest of my feathers away. I don’t really remember giving away the last one (I was so used to it by then I couldn’t even feel it).

After that I didn’t smile anymore.

When I walked down the street I put my head down because I could feel the people staring at me, but not like they used to stare. I still walk down the street like that.

Even the people I shared my wings with wouldn’t smile at me. They pretended they didn’t know me. I thought I could trust them. I thought they loved me. But they don’t, I’m not even sure if they ever did.

I knew I shouldn’t share my wings. They were my wings! How could they take them?

But it was me. No one took my wings; I gave them away. Forever. I couldn’t ask for them back. I couldn’t put them back together even if I did.

But I’ve got all I need.

I pulled the shoebox out from under the bed. A single tear dripped onto the little container. I’m alone now, but I’ve got my feather. It’s still soft.

I knew it was time to give it away too. I put it back in the box and closed my eyes.

“Dear Jesus, this one’s yours…”