orchid maker

so badly i want to be delicate.
i talked to the feathers to hear
how they found their bodies. they answered,
"a rip in the old tongue where
all the sorrow spilled out." the teeth
i traded for velvet. in the outside forest,
everyone is always scrambling for fingers
but i managed to dig up five. a hand. a fist.
i never planned to tell anyone 
of what i was making.
i thought the orchid could be a secret
between me & the wood demons. 
i could watch her grow. close my eyes
& pretend she was a ghost like me.
instead, she could not stop. her faces,
multiplied under the sapphire moon.
i snipped every head i could find. i begged,
"let it be me. let it be me." the last time
i was delicate i found a knife 
in my cheek. the flavor of golden blood.
we run for the legs that love us.
chickens screaming in the yard.
i ran until i did not have a head. then,
i was hovering above the ground 
like a hummingbird.  i used to believe
in angels. now, i know they are not interested in
the dirt or the softness. there were so many orchids.
i had to run from them. still, in almost
every room i find myself, i encounter one
mocking me. they say,
"i know how badly 
you want this." my skin peels away
like a clementine rind & i am left
as a little root system. the orchids 
are not the worst children though.
every once in a while, they will kiss
my forehead & in those moments 
i will believe their skin
is my own. i am unmarred. i am soft.
i am a daughter of the first wound,
pink & blaring.