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An Angel in A Gilded Cage Will Think Flying Is A Pain

I watch you unfold—
an argent bloom of bone and feather—
the quiet thunder of an angel
shivering beneath your skin.
I should let you rise,
let your beauty cleave the air,
let the wind kiss the hollows of your ribs.
But I do not.

I bind.
I weave my hands into the delicate lattice
of your wings,
folding them back like prayer beads,
tight against your spine,
so that you will not soar too far,
so that your light
does not leave me in shadow.

I love the angel I see in you—
the way your feathers catch the sun
like living silver—but
I love the ground too,
and the thought of you above me
terrifies me more than the night.

Every time you stretch,
every revelation of yourself,
I feel a crack in my grip.
I pull you down,
tether your glory to my chest,
and whisper that flight is dangerous,
that the sky might swallow you whole.

I am the keeper of your wings,
the jailer of your flight,
and in my fear,
I mistake my tethering for love.
I am the shadow
you have not yet flown beyond.

I watch as she curls
into the corners I have built for her,
her wings folding in on themselves
like soft paper,
creasing under my careful weight.
The shimmer dulls,
the light bends back into the shadows,
and I whisper to myself:
“Better this way. Safer. She will not leave.”

The angel forgets the song of air,
the pulse of open blue,
the taste of horizon on her tongue.
Her heart, once a drum of rising,
beats slower now,
syncopated to the rhythm of my fear.
She learns that wings can hurt,
that flight is not a gift but a trial.

And when she looks at me,
I see the quiet acceptance,
the soft resignation,
and I convince myself
that this is love:
that binding is protection,
that grounding is care,
that her shrinking wings
are proof of my devotion.

But the truth lingers in the cage’s shadow—
an angel in gilded bars may survive,
but she will never soar.

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