Emily Dickinson was Wrong

Hope is not a thing with feathers.

It is a thing with hooks,
millions and microscopic
so that it clings to you
sticks as you walk through the world in a daze of hurt
a burr, a sticker, it buries itself in your heart
it wraps itself under your skin
you cannot be rid of it even if you weren't seeking it
and it clings to you, even in the gales of doubt
of dropping temps, of spotting,
it clings
and when it is finally ripped away
it rips away a million microscopic pieces of you
of your innocence
and you are left bleeding.
and later, when the bleeding stops, and you heal,
you are left with a million microscopic scars
you are left a little tougher
a little harder
a little less naive.

Hope is not a thing with feathers.

It is a ghost
a silent presence that is suddenly there
behind you, beside you
when yesterday it was not
a hand on your shoulder when you are downtrodden
it stands with you as you rise to face another day
and comforts you
and slowly lifts your heart though you are begging it not to
though you are telling it why it shouldn't,
why it can't,
why it's dangerous to get so high
it lifts you silently, faithfully, strong.

Hope is not a thing with feathers.
It is a thing with armor.

It does not perch on your soul.
It burrows into it.

It does not sing.
It whispers
maybe and what if.