Caged her, bruised and broke her [Adaline]

[adaline]

— A D A L I N E — your mouth is poison; your mouth is wine (you think your dreams are the same as mine) Few things made her heart pound with jealousy more than seeing another with functioning wings; there was little that could make her skin prick with agony more than watching another enjoy the freedom that her own should have offered her—a gift that was, instead, stripped away so viciously. So she does not bother to hide the envy in her wide, pink eyes as the stallion looped lazily in the sky and dropped to the ground; she does not try to deny the ache in her chest as he stretched them wide for her to see—as if he knew just how much the sight poured salt into the wounds of all her darkest desires. Turning her delicate head away, she pulls the tattered edges of her wings closer to her sides, feeling little warmth from the gossamer edges as they trailed her flesh. She supposes that it was generous to call what she had wings; they were merely a shadow of what wings should be—glass bones suspending the papery, torn edges. Hardly strong enough to stand up against a gale, let alone lift her delicate body into the air. They were simply there as a reminder of all that she would never have, all of the life that she would never live. Like in all things, she was trapped and caged—forced to live as a meek, mild mare. One day, oh, one day she would tell someone of the passions that rattled in her breast—of the adventures and great loves she wanted to seek. One day, she would be brave enough to tell someone that she sometimes crept to the edges of the challenge ground and dreamt of being strong enough to collide with another. Watching as the horses flung themselves toward one another, froth and blood flying, she lived a thousand lives. But not the life that she was meant to live. Instead, she kept her head down and her voice soft, walking quietly amongst those who took pity on her. At least enough pity that they did not openly attack her. For all of her aspirations, Adaline knew that she would not stand up to a fight. It is on thus on the outskirts of the meadow that she stands, close enough to glean bits and pieces of conversations nearby but far enough to feel somewhat protected, openly admiring the stallion as he preened for all to see. Exhaling, she dropped her chin slightly to her chest. Some day.