Birdcage

Little girl,

Nose stuffed in journals all day, longing

You never come out to play, they say

But you're just waiting for the chance

It feels like epochs have gone by; it's only been a few years

The settling in your stomach, the flutter and clench in your heart

You know far more than they do, you see someone else in the mirror

Why are you so busy writing all day?, they ask

A response is hard to create, so you remain silent

Just like everyone taught you, told you, you should be

Except they don't know, don't realize the effort

The heart, the soul, the vigor invested in your words

Quiet as they are and deft to winds gone North,

They shake and rattle and ignite your soul: they are your raison d'être

Envisioning a world of color, one of warmth and acceptance,

You keep your head down and continue to write in your weather-worn memoirs,

A heart of gold and passionate voice obfuscated by ideals too archaic

I write because it is my voice, my home, my refuge,

and one day you all might call me Little Boy, too.