"If I was a bird, I'd be an owl."
If I was a bird, I'd be a-
"Don't say pigeon! I hate pigeons."
Pigeons? What is so horrid about them?
I thought and feared for my potential existence.
What if I was a pigeon?
What if my feathers were grey?
What if my belly was fat with breadcrumbs
and street scrap?
What if low coos did escape my throat
in efforts to keep warm and draw love?
What if children did push me to fly away?
What if I did choose to sit on trees,
and **** on statues of prominent people.
If I was a bird I'd be a warbler- no, a worrier.
One that plucks its feathers,
be it grey or rainbow-colored.
One that grows weak when flying in the cold,
but makes it south, all in all.
One that doesn't have a beautiful singing voice,
but chirps aways all in its lonesome.
If I was a bird, I'd peck at windows,
only to fly away
when someone comes to open it.
Because I know when I'm not welcome.

Business men pick their noses in trains.
They think no one sees them but I haven't forgotten
the many hands that they shake.

The bills were balled in their pockets,
crumpled tickets.
They talked of golden promise,
like it were glass-
you could see right through them,
easily broken.
Distorted vision buys only sadness.
Spending money is becoming a problem.

The spotlight on my skin
that never serves me justice.

Sweet girl.
You toss and you turn.
And cry salty facials.
Damp pillows stay cold.
Sleepless girl.
You hug lamb and bear.
Your own bed is foreign
in lonely language.
Sad sack girl.
You hold yourself close.
Pray for a dream this time
free of alarms.

Silly me, sitting in a new class,
feeling like a social disaster.
At the front, there's no one
to hide behind,
no one who'll turn around
to ask for a pen.
That first interaction-
a distraction from reclusive habits.
There is a bag and jacket
sitting in the seat behind me.
My writing is all that dares
to converse with me.
It's quiet company
amongst the chatter of my peers
the voices I wish I didn't hear.
When teacher asks our names,
and I stutter to respond
there are whispers in my ears.
Am I the only one?
Who doesn't know a soul-
who couldn't say hello,
when that girl's smile showed?
It's not a place I'd call home,
so I keep my nose in the chicken-scratch-
reading the syllabus
silly me, in a new class,
whispering social disaster out loud.

A gathering of familiar faces,
better left forgotten.
We're all still in the same places,
drinking ourselves rotten.