A Bird

A push was the first
of many, she was sure.
Teasing perhaps, not like anger
such behaviour was to her.

A giggle or a
chuckle, a stampede of steps.
Running and running; the sound of
a bird tangled in a net.

Happiness and fear,
both seemingly sewn together
like an old worn sweater
that was never worn ever.

The bird will free itself eventually
won’t it not?
Even a baby itself can escape
unharmed from its cot.

Except it doesn’t.

Not fully anyway. For what is a bird without its wings?
Unable to soar away without an echo of pain,
A creature unable to ever feel whole in itself again.

So it remains on the ground,
bitter and resigned,
forced to watch those friends from before
leave them behind.

And so I realised
a sudden truth and it
was a thought before that I had
once held as uncouth.

Why did I hurt for their sake;
allow them to continue to take and take?
For them to repeatedly berate and berate,
and not return any affection until it was finally too late.

Because they weren’t my friends,
and I realise that now.

They weren’t my friends,
because despite being wingless and
alone
I finally feel free
as well.