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If you let a bird out of its cage too quickly,
pushing it to grow
before it has time to mature
it'll hop to the edge of the cage door
and
regardless of whether it can fly or not
will jump out
and hit the ground with sick certainty.
now you have the poor mangled body of a bird
and you have to scoop it up and put its scarred form back on the floor of the cage,
little heart beating frantically against your fingers
desperate for a chance at life.
soft feathers warm and sticky with blood,
seeping deeply into the ridges of your hands
you try your very best to not look directly at it, as it gazes with baleful eyes,
asking
"why have you done this to me"
It's not dead. Not yet.
but you both wish it was.
Its wings can heal, with time and care,
but it will never be able to fly as fast or as high as the other birds,
no matter how hard it tries.
Blood stains what it touches. feathers, once brown, are dyed a deep red.
merlot splatters upon the floor
It's okay though.
as long as the bird can sing, and stand and look
pretty
for the visitors and guests.
nobody will ask questions about why it won't go near the cage door anymore
or why it tends to lean on one leg more than the other
or why it's wings are tinged with such a curious shade of red
only the guilty wine spill knows your secrets and it whispers them in your ear in the night when you stand alone, watching the covered cage without an inch of shame.
you make me sick.