Stella McKay

Cages

I am trapped in a cage I didn’t make. My wings have atrophied from a lack of use, and I no longer know if my voice works. Even if it did, I do not know of what I would sing about. If anything, I think I would scream. My throat would become raw, but at least I would know that I still have a voice, even if I could hardly recognize it. My words would be those of a disembodied voice, reminiscent of the days that I still had hope that things would get better. But sometimes things don’t get better. Sometimes your wings atrophy and your voice fades and you are left not quite broken but out of use. At least broken things can be fixed. I have forgotten how to be alive. If I ever had a purpose, I have forgotten what it was, and it’s likely that it was never that fulfilling in the first place.