This Train Station

There is music behind the background
Softly playing
I do not like it

These black bat appendages
Are not my wings
Connected through my shoulders
By uncomfortable black wire
With claws resting beneath my clavicle

No one could fly attached to these things

I focus
I see a skeleton face with a bald head
He mocks me, cocking his head to the side

And I manage to get the heavy monstrosities flapping
These wings, as heavy as titanium beams
Ripping against my fair skin

I see blood traveling in lines down my arms
I force the wings to flap, to rip, to disconnect
Bringing me to a kneeling position on the floor
As they smack and break and bleed against the concrete

These are not my wings
I say it in my head
I say it in a whisper
I say it in a scream

And finally, the wings let go of me.

No creature attached to them ever could have flown.

Underneath, there are small swirls on my back
Like a tattoo of butterfly wings slowly expanding.

Tell me,
With these new wings,
Will I be able to fly?