“Birds born in a cage think flying is an illness.”
— Alejandro Jodorowsky
You do what you do because you love them, but you don’t really believe that, do you.
“No one can know about it,” they tell you, and you nod because you’ve already spent so many years looking over your shoulder, locked in a room.
Nails can break your skin but when it comes to them it’s a special kind of burning, urgent and removed with a blackberry bruise.
Lies drop from your mouth when people ask you about them.
“We’re doing good,” you say, the lies spilling down your front in a black mess now, your smile frozen in the shape of the fingernail marks down your arms.
You’re not supposed to talk about it, so you don’t, and as the years drag on, you realize you forgot what it even was.
So you start doing the things you do.
You burn bridges and cut ropes and make things harder for yourself.
You find time to find holes and jump into them without help.
You think there is a special kind of misery invented for the leftover kids, so you carve out a piece of it and spread it out and lie in it, sinking down until it morphed into the shape of your body, and then and only then do you close your eyes.
When you sleep you dream about things that dig ditches and pull out stitches.
You don’t wake up until your eyes are gold and your hair is white and then and only then do you realize why you did what you did.
Because you loved them, but you don’t really believe that, do you.
Millie’s Note: Another attempt at writing more honestly. Many thanks to elmediat for reminding me to write more shorter pieces!