A big white bird flies by my window, and once again

I am reminded of just how small I am on this planet.

How insignificant I must seem to this perfect being.

The bird grazes the sky with her magnificent white wings.

He is a jubilant being and she smiles at me as he passes,

almost mockingly- but she is too beautiful to resist.

Nearly perfect, but there is a glaring issue with his beak.

I feel a rush of euphoria as I see the detail, and it makes me-

Well, it makes me feel great.  No longer perfect!  Ha!

The bird turns around from her forward journey, and he stares-

No.  She glares at me.  He asks me why I gloat about her faults this way.

In my orgasmic state, I sneer at him.  Who is he to ask me anything?

Why should I answer such an ugly creature?  Does she deserve this?

I do not care.  In my bid for acceptance, in my bid for love: I hate.

If I cannot be loved for my imperfections, why should he?  Ugly creature.

I feel her pity and it angers me.  I shove myself to my foot, and limp towards

Him.  This sexless, genderless, ugly thing.  I shoo her, and scream.

In my demented anger, I lose myself.  I lose my empathy.  I lose my heart.

Yet, that white bird of pure origins just sits.  He sympathizes.  She sees me.

I tried to hide my ugliness, but it was brought forth.  I tried to pretend,

But an angry soul always breaks loose.  I shove open the window.

I am frantic now.  Everyone will find out, and again I’ll be hated.

The bird does not move as I grab him and squeeze with my cruelty.

She looks at me, and for the first time in my anger- I see my reflection.

In his cold black eyes, I am only a person.  I hold her life in my hands.

He knows what is coming, but she does not struggle.  He thinks I’ll stop.

She thinks I’ll know to stop and remember that he is God’s creature. 

She thinks that I’ll see that imperfections mean nothing in the face of empathy.

He thinks I’ll realize we are both full of sin.  Full of anger at our circumstance.

I bet she didn’t see my lack of care.

I bet he didn’t see me snapping his neck.

Birds can’t tell the future.

But humans can shape it.

Poetry explains:

The imperfections.

The fears.

The explanations.

The tears.

The future.