Freedom, at last.
She left the windows open.
It had been blistering for years, or so it seemed to me.
She never opened the peeling windows. He wouldn't let her. He tells her what to do,
and what not to do.
I think she's trapped.
I think she's plastered to the jungle of walls, just as I am.
I watch her dance,
I watch her cry,
alone.
I want to speak to her, to tell her to spread her delicate wings and fly away from this plastered home,
with these closed windows,
and these red days.
One day
He didn't come home.
He didn't come and howl at her
to quiet down.
He didn't suppress her silvery wings.
So in celebration, she opened the tired windows--
every single one of them.
And it was cool outside.
She felt the wind slide across her milky face; refreshing.
It wasn't torrid, or stuffy,
so she flew away.
And I guess it's time for me to fly, too.
Freedom, at last.