or when there is nothing to do but compose.
a shout;
a swear;
a scream;
delivered past my lips.
a jay's call;
a jay's dive;
a jay's attack;
delivered by my limbs.
a tic of the eye;
a pair of clenched fists;
a fit of rage;
showing as precursors.
anxiety;
depression;
perfections;
turn my teeth gritted.
tears;
cries;
words;
make me realize
there is no wren in my heart, fluttering with its small wings,
but instead, a blue jay, beating against the bars of its cage in attempt to break free
until it finds freedom, flying out through my chest and using my voice to bite at others, tugging at its chains.
i am no wren,
for she is too quiet and kind to live in my chest.
the jay,
with his aggressive nature,
has chased away the clever wren.
YOU ARE READING
Smart Girl
Non-Fictionthoughts from the smart girl. //the journal of wren// //highest rank #2 in non fiction// //all names of real people interacted with here are altered from their original versions for privacy's sake//
