Why do we speak in code inches from each other? I breathe your breath, share your straw and your living space. But my words come out as zeroes and ones, afraid to bare my inner bird and that tiny beating heart. No one knows my secret language. It keeps a careful fence around my nest at night.

Blood and fog stream through the valves of my heart, separated like water and oil. Globules of fog escape, dark and active and reaching. I’m afraid to show you my blackness. It needs to be understood like a child with a story to tell. But I fear it’s too dense to pass through your filters. I wrestle under an old quilt at night next to the dark, doubting fog.

I’ve got wings hidden in the threads of my camisole. They call me a gem, a wonderfully feathered thing that everyone desires to hold. You hold me. Not in the same way as others, you keep your hands open in case I want to fly again. I’ve never known this freedom.

Moments of clarity reappear, transparent patches on dirty windows. I see that I am an extraordinary being with a quiet strength. My mind is a many-sided crystalline structure. Its complexities shine through the greens and yellows of my irises, contrasted by the blackness of eyelashes and two pupils.

Bring me a daisy. It will match my bright eyes and eager limbs today.

I am a bird, a wonderfully feathered thing.

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