You ought to be grateful, Charles. Not many young birds would be willing to mate with such a sorrowful whistler. Father's words from the night before coat my mind through to the early morning when Caroline’s cheerful chirps wake me with a start. I hate the morning. I hate its stupid crisp air and rising pink sun.

A parental-shaped shadow peaks through the rootlets I’ve braided over the top of my nest to keep that very ball of fire out. Father advises me to fluff my vibrant red feathers, glisten my beak, and head out for the hunt like the Redbird he raised me to be. Mamma says my cousins don’t get to hunt like we do, Uncle Landon doesn’t even have a mate. How lucky am I to come from a long lineage of Royal Northern Cardinals, I should be honored.

My definition of luck came in a plump brown package. She was a loner by choice and didn’t understand the need for mates. So when Caroline and I bonded as hatchlings, we made a pact to only put up with each other. I need my space, and everyone already avoids her. A match made in a Mulberry tree. Father never could understand the need for more, what with brains the size of a thumbnail – my mind wanders still. I dream of longer flights with grander views; late nights, and even later mornings.

Still, we need to eat. I’ve cleared the distance of green grass I’d trotted brown yesterday chasing a grasshopper. Through the clearing ahead, an old run-down human nest comes into view. Mamma says the humans live in these boxes, storing food for the winter along all the walls. If only I could find a way to do the same. Caroline’s melodious song mingles in the air and I project a matching tune. When I cease, she elongates her sound and I know it’s time for breakfast. I must hurry, my instinct is to provide. I mustn't waste any more time daydreaming. Surely Father is right when he tells me this yearning will pass. I can’t see anything good from down here, I’ll need to get higher.

I spot a flash of red from the corner of my eye when I land on the branches extended from the human box. Wait, who is that? A bird matching my height and elegance stares back from the shiny square hole in the side of the oversized nest. Who the hell is that? An anger I’d never known burned through my chest. He’s here for my food, Caroline's food... My unborn hatchlings' food... The intruder mirrors my every move, as if mocking me. Can he hear my thoughts? Oh God... Charge!

~CRASH~

Dried branches lining the gravel driveway crackle under Jeanie’s SUV. She ponders the warn yard, and the lifted paint on the decrepit deck that Larry and Ben put up in 78’. Fourteen summers had passed since life had graced this doorstep. Rounding the corner and up the backstairs, the old lady is pleasantly surprised to see the windows have yet to be smashed in.

Cardinal melodies fill the salty air cocooning the forgotten cabin; fully bloomed trees sway in the summer breeze. The ground lay still. Mangroves block the wind the sea brings forth, and wildlife reaps the riches of the calm moisture. The neglected garden in the backyard has brought forth a chaotic insect paradise. Tomato vines spread far and tangled through the un-mowed grass. Jeanie scoffs in dismay as she enters her beloved shack. Summers spent here with the children are long gone, and it’s time to say goodbye.

She had come here to clear out memorabilia and eat a homemade lunch by the sea one last time. After finishing her canned tuna sandwich over the sink, Jeanie tests the taps, and the water flows after a quick putter. She gets lost in the summer sun illuminating the gaillardia through the window above the sink. One of the flowers hops towards her, startling the woman. She squints her eyes to focus, but it’s not long before the flower flutters its wings and lands on the deck outside; revealing itself to be a small red bird. Jeanie’s eyesight is not what it used to be. Locking eyes with the unexpected visitor, she wonders if Larry could be there to see her off. Tears form, memories flicker, and a smile spreads across her face.

The bird, however, did not seem to share her sentiment. Only seconds later, it took flight in a fit of anger, violently colliding into the window she looked out of. Jeanie gasps and catches herself on the sink's edge. Sobbing, the meager lady totters outdoors to save the poor beauty. Her gaze sweeps the deck, but the bird is gone. Feeling a rush of relief, she knows they will both be okay.

I wake up behind my eyes, first. The coffee doesn’t stir them open this morning. Vivid dreams flash back against my lids, it is so loud in here. The weight of another day yanks shut my lashes while I cross the threshold into the world.

I grab my phone to shock the system and habitually open Instagram to find mindless shorts that kickstart the engine or a migraine. Today’s top post is from my friend, Lanie. My acquaintance? A girl I used to work with, who tried quite hard to be my friend. I’m just about 30 and she’s just begun her 20’s. Sweet girl, too smart and very vulnerable. Reminds me of myself. You can’t be friends with your younger self.

Her post is for New Year's, ‘A Year of Friendship’. How beautiful, how jealous, how FOMO. My rational adult mind has come to terms with the fact that after two years of attending her band's shows, open mics, birthday parties, and movie nights – I’m always left feeling the same. I start the night deciding to just be me. I feel pretty, I tell myself I’m funny and I go. I usually have a good time, just on the other side of having real fun. I wake up anxious, and tired and no more connected to her than the last time we met. She’s a great girl, with so much love to give. Too much ‘love’ to give.

Do you see how that sounds like I’m breaking up with her? I feel like she knows everyone without knowing anyone and I can’t keep up with that and that should be okay. That is okay. But you don’t get to just break up with friends like you do when you’re dating. I’m starting to wake up now and I’m reminding myself how raw my emotions are first thing. That’s why I’m writing this now. I remind myself that I’m not a bad person. It’s okay that I haven’t found my community yet, I shouldn’t feel obligated to be a part of hers just because I’m invited.

Just before Christmas, she invited me to her fanciest get-together yet. A quiet night at a lounge downtown to celebrate her birthday. I baked a cookie that looked like her, and more with her band name on them to present to the group. They were all eaten, that’s a side note but important to me. She squealed with excitement when I showed up, that should make me feel great… but it felt ingenuine. All of it felt for show. She does the same dance for every new face, the same questions without really wanting the answer. I melded into the crowd and found a few familiar faces to make small talk with. Biding my time until a new face distracts the crowd and I can make my way home. And I do, but not before noticing an all too familiar glaze over everyone’s eyes. Do we all feel this way?

She reached out a few days later to let me know I left my cookie tray and to tell me she’d never met someone like me before. That last statement sticks out to me. Completely unprompted. I see that we’re now having a conversation under this one. I’ve also not met a soul like hers, but I adore her intent. I decided to be completely honest, I’m not in a place to be her friend right now. I appreciate her and wish her the best in life but I don’t have it in me to come up with excuses and she deserves better. I need a minute.

I shake my head, mute her posts... Don’t fall off course now. Wake up. Remember my commitment to myself. She didn’t respond after the last message and I take that as a good thing. Maybe she understands. I promised myself I’d write 500-word stream-of-consciousness posts every morning, so I opened my writing apps instead. Four notifications! Comments from others who relate to this displacement I’m experiencing as I learn to heal. Hope that I may find a genuine place of comfort and art. Where I can use my trauma, and endless thoughts to create and filter. Less judgment, more humility. I need a minute. I’m so happy to be here.

I’ve always wanted to be a little more creative in my stories, but I’m so fascinated with humanity as is. The way we weave our own stories creates life and creates energy and motion. Change is developed by each choice we make and I just think that the bees knees. I think that’s where a lot of my fear has stemmed over the years. I certainly have specific events that affected me, but they come from the uncontrollable choices of others. I guess I’ve never been able to trust anyone. I don’t fully, truly, and without a doubt trust anyone. Except for Keith, he’s the beacon of light that pushes me to experience outside of keeping myself safe. Or just surviving. Because I want to feel, to taste, to cry.

I know that every day presents an opportunity for everything to change. Every day… that’s crazy. And every single person, or even a drop of rain can affect the outcome of my story. And I don’t have one say. CRAZY. Overwhelming. Beautiful and tragic and I can’t get enough. I’m tired of being on the outside looking in and I deserve to enjoy as much of it as I can. I want to build my own worlds and put my characters down different paths. I want to see where my mind can take me. That’s a whole other thing – the shit our minds come up with. Which is kind of what I meant by “more creative”. People develop technology that lives purely in story form but is completely understood. Sometimes mimicked into reality. CRAZY. These are the things that blow my mind. I want to explore new species, cultures, and creations. We get to just make everything up! It’s never-ending.

I don’t want to die bored. I don’t want to die tired, or even fat and happy. I don’t want to die when the cold wind slaps my body to the ground, my world upside down. I refuse to die still, or dried out with a permanent frown. I just can’t die tonight.

I want to die on fire. Electric. I’m going to explode my worth in all directions. I plan to light my world ablaze and die alive.

So I will take what I want, and do who I please. I’ll eat the flavors of every corner and always pull over to touch the water. I do not take the easy route, but I will take my time.

And after every mile I’ll absorb every experience, until I bubble and boil and burst my way out.

I deplore the word anxiety

But I want to say it with conviction,

Belt until I’m heard.

So I do, and now I hate the sound of my voice.

No matter the word,

It will fall under the umbrella of why

I’m not good enough.

For me, it means I hide from my mind sometimes,

No amount of expression can truly quell the simple fact

that I am indeed Anxious.

I will write it down.

Come up with a way to show, and not tell –

Possibly tolerate this version of expression.

But all of the metaphors have dried up.

Every last one of us is anxious.

All caged, imposters.

We’re all flies repeatedly thumping into windows,

Peering into the other side, seeing a reflection of ourselves we don’t believe in.

Most of all, we can’t find the crack left open for us to come in with the wind.

Then we do, and we’re left feeling silly.

Taking no answers with us, for when we find ourselves back outside.

Hills so steep the bag toils the pavement

Imprinted path, stamped deep into the jute...

Surface voids run deep, till’ the pigeons claim it home.

Nothing ever finished.

Alleyways tight, to forge companionships.

Mapped on the bottom of my eco-friendly weight.

Flyposting extolled,

Verbosity, critically acclaimed.

A collection of small town dreamers.

Impressive determination to be honest.

Oh to be marked with this energy.

To float amongst the history, and land in the preposterous pretention.

Hypocritical, really.

I feel an innate energy when someone notices me from across the room. I like to soak up that energy, let it seep through my brain until these made-up scenarios feel like memories. It’s a dangerous game to mourn the smell of a person you’ll never meet.

I like to imagine what they wear to bed, how the fabric feels over the flesh they usually keep to themselves. What would it feel like to run my tongue along the cinched cotton around their waist? I play this game with myself. My own version of classic people watching. What are they having for supper tonight? Are they married, or a man-whore? Then the boring questions. What are their hopes and dreams? Do they have kids? Are they holding hands out of habit?

I want to know that other people get the shitty end of the stick, too. Either way, we’re all meat sacks seeping our shit onto the planet. To an extent, it’s true that we hold little to no power. I'm not prone to argue about the power we have, or the societal fuckery that we’ve had to survive. I’d rather bask in the sunlight we don’t pay for.

For a long time, I was painted with guilt by the immeasurable pressure to do better than my childhood. I would play this game with myself as the main character. My raw soul clung to happily never-afters. Envisioning futures all the way down to the gritty details. I found myself obsessed with the mundane activities of a life I could never reach. Balancing the beliefs I feel others have about me. If I obsess over the inner thoughts I’ve put on others, will I ever really be my own version of happy? Can I stop asking these questions long enough for reality to hit?

I've crawled my way out to a point where I see who I really am. The fantasies fade, and life just is. My hair is a brownish red, not 'cymbidium petals landing on my shoulders'. Eyes, just green, not 'admirable serpentines'. I don’t know if I like this person. The egregious energy I wasted has recharged into a woman I'm just getting to know. If I'm admitting this is who I am, how do I stop judging her? If someone spoke their genuine thoughts, what would they say?

"You're pretentious, and egotistical one day; humbled with self-hatred the next. You walk the earth with outward empathy, but we all know how you really feel. We know you question every move, and overanalyze each situation. We know you don’t let yourself trip up. You contemplate your worth when old guilt creeps up. If you make one mistake, we’ll see it on your face forever. Better be careful."

When I reached my peak, I likened myself to a Magellan of the arts. The first discoverer of Chinua Achebe. A radar for jazz, and sad people in need of unsolicited advice. This unnecessary jargon worked like a charm. I became a person others sought out in need of inspiration. Making the most of life, making the most of even the boring parts of life. I accepted our existence for what it is. I’ve admitted I am happy. That energy brought forth everlasting love. I'm too happy.

My dad died after cutting contact for four years.

And when anxiety found me this time, my guard was down, and I didn’t deserve all I'd worked so hard for. They’d changed their minds about me. They screamed the opposite. My words are those of growth and happiness. My thoughts are those of agony, and imposter syndrome. How dare —

(inspired by Joshua David, a new favourite among many)

We don't read poetry slow enough.

We don't wade into the depth of each other's souls.

We tumble, or more so heave our stupid little hearts over the cliff.

It feels like we're flying.

And for that split moment, at terminal velocity, maybe that's the closest humans get.

Maybe utter hopelessness is worth the risk.

The glory.

For some, their souls are clutched by 'the one' and they either tether themselves in ecstacy, or go down together.

Yet the ricochet hurts, and every jump takes a new parachute, convincing yourself it's worth it this time; takes longer and longer, and we start to close our eyes.

We don't look both ways before we cross the street anymore.

I think we hope we're hit, to feel something again; to blame someone else for our aching bones. Without assessing the damage we cause in our wake.

But what was I supposed to say?

You gave me yourself by taking it away.

Why am I mourning something that never was?

What fresh power the word “you” has in every strike of creativity.

My mamma told me artists are born full, or starve forever.

Joyous lives are pre-selected.

Choose wisely, while I drink away the memories of the stories I didn't write.

Why is it so hard to write about the ones we love, while we're loving them?

Why does "joy" feel taboo on my tongue?

I want to express myself, without defending my pain.

You spend your entire life surviving a monster,

only to wake up an imposter.

I identify as such.

Refusing to commit because I'm still digging.

Or climbing, or relearning how untrue her words really were.

How she never found herself.

Or maybe, like a blind date, she got there, didn't like what she saw;

and drove to the liquor store.

And here I am, addicted to nicotine and self discovery.

Afraid to admit I might like who I am.

I sat alone today, in the first memory we never made.

In the place that blossomed an idea,

Of what we never were.

How enlightened was I,

Wretched deception.

I’m not soaking anymore,

Bloated; I detonate.

Months of disregarded inspiration,

At bay, consciousness coated in depression.

Mental confinement breeds dollops of vision,

Mandible tension; single sentences dribble down my lower lip.

Mind unloaded, creative rudiments litter my notebook,

I strike a match and let my spirit burn.