I think that maybe
my heart is like a birdcage,
kind of rusted and maybe a little bent
and, to be honest,
not really the kind of cage birds should be in.
And I think that maybe
you’re the bird.
You’re there, in my beat up birdcage heart
and I know you’re not supposed to be there,
but there you are anyways
sitting upon the perch of my emotions,
making yourself at home where you
shouldn’t be.
It’s not safe for you here, little bird;
I will get you a bigger cage,
but will you take it?
I can change whatever you need me to,
little bird,
but will you fly far, far away
as soon as I loosen my grip?
Maybe I can be what you need one day,
what you want, someday soon,
but would you wait for me?
I’m sorry you’re cooped up in this little cage.
I promise I’m saving up for a new one
but I think you see another bird outside;
and maybe you’d rather be there.