Birdsong

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
There’s a bird that sits out on my window sometimes, I don’t know what species it is or why it even lives there

Submitted: June 27, 2011

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Submitted: June 27, 2011

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Theres a bird that sits out on my window sometimes, I dont know what species it is or why it even lives there. But it doesn’t matter. It is beautiful, and when the disembodied lullaby floats into my room I can almost leave the world behind. All the pain and sorrows, the trials and tribulations of daily life seem to dissolve into the sweet song. There are some days when I wish I could just lay there in bed and have the bird sing to me all day.

 

I live in a group home. Im sure the other girls have heard the song of my bird floating through an open window. I’m sure it has even annoyed some of them, inspired others. But I can’t be sure. I don’t want to talk to them about it, I guess I might be afraid of losing the ethereal, almost other worldly tranquility it gives me. Like a private escape. An oasis in the desert of a city.

 

It sings to me of things I cannot sing to myself. It sings songs of hope and joy, of peace and love and beauty. It is hard for me to find these things in a group home. A place for unwanted, unloved youth. It is hard for me to see beauty at the mission, in a sea of the city‘s hungry and needy. It is hard for me to see hope and peace surrounded by police tape. Hard to find joy in the eyes of a junkie.

 

Another girl from our shelter was found dead in an alley. A lot of us end up there. Cold metal and toe tags. It’s hard to find another way when there is no loving hand to guide you. You start to realize you have to do whatever you can to get where you need to be. Although most of us find that high is where we need to be. Those of us who haven’t been found in an alley yet are just in line to be next. The troubling thing is that we aren’t troubled by this fact.

 

The first time I had sex for money, I lay awake all night in the paid for hotel room. The man had already left. I cracked the window so that I could hear my bird, then I remembered the bird was at the home. I cried all night. But I got high the next day. The entire city felt as if it was alive and crawling all over me, it was dirty and cramped and close. I snuck back into the group home as if I never left. They seemed to understand and acted as if I never left. It made it that much harder, to know that no one really cared that I was gone.

 

That night I listened to the bird singing its beautiful song and wished I could hatch as one of it’s baby birds, whatever bird it may be. I felt sure that bird would love it’s chicks. If I were a bird I could fly away, over the city smog, over the pain. I could be free and loved and beautiful. I could sing a song to a sad girl in the night. I could be on the other side of my sad concert. I tried singing once. It sounded awful.

 

I almost made it to the cold metal one night. It was in an alley. I just turned a trick and was crying softly to myself. Walking. Floating. I never could remember what happened. No matter how hard I tried. I woke up in a cold, sterile bed. I felt broken, alone, sad. I thought I had died. A nurse came in and told me I had been beaten and raped. A police man told me that they probably wouldn’t ever catch the man. I refused the help from the nurse. I refused the pain medication. I wanted to feel the horrifying pain and emptiness. Every second of it. It was when night time came that I cried. The darkness always felt so large and enveloping around me. I let it swallow me whole. Giving into the darkness, I heard it, the birdsong. It was my bird, I knew it was.

 

It brought with it the hope and joy, the peace and love. It drug me into the oasis. I was able to smile though my tears. I don’t believe in god, but I believe in my birdsong. Life isn’t fair. Only those on the side receiving injustice truly realize this. But we are the ones who appreciate the real beauty in life. Things that a pay check and luxury sedan can’t get you. A real second chance at living. My birdsong.

 

 


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