They Say Vulnerability is a Sign of Weakness

All day long, I wait as an offering,

insides turned out- skin, flesh, bones-

prepared like an open feast,

all for the birds to eat.

My hands outstretched, I wait for them

to come and perched on my stiff shoulders;

to peck on my eyes and to peel away

layers upon layers of muscles and sinews

until they get to gobble my heart

which still grows on its own

as long as I stand on this very ground.

This ground…this fickle mistress

Of both death and life.

Seasons upon seasons, I stand here-

Never wincing at the pain.

Children cry at my demise

But I laugh as the birds devour.