The caged bird sings with a fearful trill, of things unknown, but longed for still. —Maya Angelou, “Caged Bird”
A woman walked up; told me I was beautiful. Eyes stark and mesmerized, started to lift her hand and lean in to touch my feather, the crest of my head.
Gawking, she called her other friends over to pet and view my exotic, my natural.
And if I had swatted her hand away, screamed and pushed her, I would have been called beast, wild animal, untamed.
How do you cope?
They say, Can I touch it?
So wide. Look.
So big, so full.
Can I keep her?
When everyone tells you to hide your true self, but wearing the features they made you hate, your body does not know whether to change its stripes or break the bars and run.
It’s hard to look in the mirror; to not hear their voices:
You’d be prettier if you bleached,
snipped a wing or two,
trimmed the fat,
if your squawk wasn’t so riotous.
I am losing myself.
Been here so long, this cage feels more like a home, More like a place to rest under, than escape. The more they tell me to change, the harder it is to remember what I loved about myself—my long neck, full beak, plumage like ink. This beautiful mahogany tail that spans majestic, crooked appendix that keeps waving.