With just a few words,
I am reduced to that little bird again.
Maybe she never left,
I'll never know.
She could never do anything right,
Was always different,
In the not-good way,
Always shamed and embarrassed them.
She was an embarrassment.
She moved away from her old nests,
Where the other birds her age used to stare and gossip about her,
And thought she changed,
And thought she made stable foundations,
But she always was crazy.
Then too soft.
Never able to find the happy medium.
And then she came back,
And the bird's beaks were mostly shut,
She didn't feel close to anyone,
But still talked to people.
But then her own sister whispered up at her,
"You embarrass me. I am ashamed to have people know we are sisters."
And the words echo in her ears.
And she remembered all those times spent apologizing for not knowing better, knowing that the apology would come in the morning.
The apologies came and went, and it was hard to feel better.
She knew it was never meant as harshly as the words came out, but she was young.
And sometimes she was spiteful, Sometimes she was rude,
But the times she didn't know any better,
Or forgot to think,
Those stung the most.
Yawn. The little bird stretches and wakes, and every morning hears a different apology.
Over time, they meant less and less.
And today, she knows an important lesson-- words said in anger hold the truths we'd never set free otherwise.