i was born because a sparrow's wing fell off, shortly before the rest of its feathers. shortly before it could do no more than open and close its frail little beak. my mother had found it lying on the sidewalk and raised it in a shoebox. it died in a blue blanket, its foot twitching. the shoebpox was empty, but my mother had enjoyed taking care of something. fifteen years ago the sparrow died, and now i wear drugstore concealer and oversized sweaters. i carry three lighters in my tote bag, each of them a confession i will never make out loud. each of them worse than the last. i will take them to my grave. i imagine my death often. sometimes my lover pulls out a gun. sometimes a car flattens me on the highway and doesn't bother to turn around. sometimes my body loses its temper and gives up on me. sometimes i am painfully aware of my jaw and sometimes my whole body twitches like a branch in the wind. sometimes i am a sparrow laying on the sidewalk with a clipped wing, waiting to be taken care of. i beg people not to leave me. i pack my bags. i always keep a hand on the trigger. everything i do is all teeth and nails. all gritty and painful. it's never easy. i don't allow it to be. i am never a good person, but i ask good questions. it's only a matter of time until my feathers fall off and then i'm a tiny corpse in a shoebox in a trash can in a garbage truck in a frozen picture, cold for the first time in its life, each heartbeat shallower than the last. each one a tainted deathbed confession.
i. when i look in the mirror i see his hair. i see his hands. the screaming is palpable but i don't touch it. instead i focus on the fanfasy. in it, i am choking. it doesn't matter. i throw myself over the back of a chair and start spitting out memories instead of food. i am empty and full of bones sticking out. i am free.
ii. sometimes i am five feet tall. sometimes i am noticeably a kid. sometimes i am noticeably a sparrow. noticeably a prisoner in a body that doesn't belong to me. i still haul it around. i make the legs carry me, like a puppeteer filled with venom. sometimes i smoke on a park bench until i get dizzy.
iii. i am not separate from the sky. i am not separate from the sea. i am not separate from the ground. i live in the walls. i am not singular! i knock on the windows. i leave red lipstick messages on the mirror. i put photos up on the fridge. i still forget who i am from time to time.
