hope is the tired little bird at the bottom of your heart, the one whose tiny wings are broken and bleeding, the one that won't stop flapping uselessly at the sky, like it's going to take off, take off dammit, even when it's fading by the second and dying in a heap of feathers, and it breaks your heart to see the optimistic flame still sparkling in such innocent eyes.
i'm writing this to tell you that i don't know what i need. i'm writing this because i can't pull any fancy metaphors from the back of my throat to save my pride this time. i'm writing this to see the look on your face when you wake up and wonder why i keep running away.
hope is the thing with feathers, my broken baby bird. hope is the trust in those newborn eyes that makes you burst out sobbing although you never know why. it's the razor-sharp edge between happiness and pain, the line you try to fly on crippled wings, my little bird, just to save someone stronger from having to walk it for themselves.
i'm writing this because my eyes don't work anymore and i can't see where the lines blur and cross in my overemotional mind. i'm writing this because i have nothing real to hold onto, just guesses and ancient promises and things that mean nothing to anyone but me. i'm writing this because i don't want to swing from hope to doubt every five point two seconds, but when the music starts, i can't help but fall apart.
hope is holding such a tiny, battered body in the palm of your hand and feeling so horribly guilty, so completely guilty, as you watch its labored struggle for breath and wish you could do something, anything, to make it stop, just make it stop so you don't have to watch anymore.
my baby bird, my beautiful baby bird, you break my heart with your hopeful singing. stop flapping your tiny wings and let go, my little songbird, let go because sometimes hope isn't worth it any more.
but even though it tears me apart to watch, i know you're not going to stop believing.
hold on, little bird.