I am
a baby bird.
Flight equals destiny.
"You are young,
you are single,
you have potential,"
they enthuse,
pushing words
from smiling teeth,
unsure of their own sincerity.
Their intentions
are golden;
but they don't know me
the way I do.
Like any goal I scribble
across my shamefully smooth palm
is locked in my closet,
waiting for me
to pull out all the stops,
grin and bear it,
bite the bullet.
Make. It. Work.
They can't comprehend
how some morning
I wake up still dreaming
and I'd rather
fold my sheets
soft over my ears
so I no longer hear expectation.
The sky
looks fantastic,
plush clouds lighting up
missing spaces.
But can't you see?
I am
such a tiny
baby bird.