She tried to wear feathers every chance she could,
just in case she needed to fly away quickly.
It was one of the first lessons her parents ever taught her.
Before how to hold her fork or how to say cheese
or how to sing Brand New Key.
Her favorite lullaby she'd sing to herself
when they forgot.
They forgot a lot.
When the clashes came from the kitchen,
she'd stare out her window and envy the birds.
If only she had feathers.
If only she had feathers.
She grew up fast and thought he could save her just as...
so they flew away fast as fast as they could.
Together.
Her on his wing and him in her heart.
He carried her so long she lost all the feathers she'd collected.
They just blew away with her memories.
Which was a lovely feeling until it wasn't.
And that's how she happened to be at the tattoo parlor yesterday.
Growing feathers, one by one.
Just in case she'd need to fly away quickly one more time.
Just in case she'd need to fly away quickly one more time.
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