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A Bird

When I look in the mirror, I do not see a teenage girl reflection. I dont consider myself a "teenage girl' at all. Because of you, my body has reformed itself into a bird. A bird who sticks out from all the other flocks of birds. Migration! Adaption! It's all I've heard, ever since I became one. Tell me, how do i migrate? How do you suspect me to adapt? Everytime, I start to head out and migrate, I turn for the hills and head on back. We birds migrate to keep "warm." But, I swear it could've been cold as hell, and too heartless for a bird's benefit, and I'd always dealt with it. I am a bird. A bird with a broken wing, who is slowly drowning in sorrow. In agony pain, that seems to suck the life out of me. As a bird, I am laying hopelessly. I want to fly again, and go back to my hometown, where I found myself stabolized the most. But, then again what's the point? The earthquake really shook us apart.




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