Feathers

There was this one time that this young lady was all "OMG touch me please it will be super neat"

And I was all "Nah I just want to draw in my journal and understand scientifically why humans sleep and how a margarita tastes"

And she was all "Shut up you boob. Nobody gives a hoot. Sit down, now"...
And I didn't know what to do. Not at all. Cartoons never prepared me for this.
She wasn't an oil spill or quicksand...
She was a human being with ideas.
So I looked down at my wings...
And grudgingly, knew they could never hold me up

I knew I wasn't going to be able to wrestle her larger frame out of my path to the door either...
So I submitted
Young, dainty plumage not strong enough to break skin quite yet...

The faster she got what she wanted, translated in my mind to the faster I could go back to my            
Imaginary happenings 

So she goes ahead and all of her greedy demons get their pounds, my pounds, of flesh,  

And while I returned unfazed and without even so much as blinking once all the way through it,
Never again would I feel comfortable with another touching me ever again. 

And man... My Mom is just so...kinda really touchy. I can picture it now, walking through the doors
Each time I come home with my cliche sitcom-esque line

"Hey mom, what's for dinner?"

You can almost hear the smugness in my words as they roll out quaintly and waft through the
Empty-bird-nest silence of my Texas home like kool-aid-stain-red and cheeto-finger-orange feathers
That find their rest neatly in the bowls of her ears.

And at once, as I hear her rustle about and exclaim her affections, though I love her deeply, I feel the
Fresh smile run flat 

I know what is coming

We are fruits of an extremely boisterous Italian family after all, so hugs and kisses galore the instant
You enter the door is purely natural reflex at this point. 

Before I can even close the door behind me or put down my heavy luggage (which I've learned to put
Down beforehand) she coils her arms around me and burrows her head into my chest. 

Like a living sweater.

Or a very warm straight-jacket. 

And as always I hug back as long as I need to, release a sigh of relief because my father only requires
A head nod,

And get the hell out of dodge before she starts ruffling my hair or massaging my shoulders.

When I was younger I would always wonder why my Dad would twist and cringe when she would Look for embraces,
But after that day some 9 years ago, I think I finally understood 

Though it only creates more questions than answers, and it makes you feel unappreciated mother, 

Accept our apologies and know that we're working on it

I play sports, sure... 

Which sounds like insanity. 

But it's somehow doable because in those environments, at least then I can mentally prepare myself.

Run over the possibilities of where and when and how fingers or feet or sweaty foreheads may collide With my own.

And I'm still not quite sure why that works for me but it does. 

I guess it's that sense of control I get from knowing my wings are ready
Because of that day back then when they weren't.

Maybe not.

And this goes without saying, but dating is total crap.
I once had a panic attack when I woke up to my significant other sleeping nestled up to me on her
Couch despite having been dating for 4 months...
Things work a little slower with me

So please, for the love of God, don't pat me on the shoulder while you guffaw, other hand on your gut
Even if it was a joke I told or a comment I made

Do not poke and prod for my attention

Trust that it will be given because I want to hear you, my friends

Or latch onto my arms to lead to me places that your voice alone could 

Because I might quite enjoy the sound of the song the strings in your voice make 

Plucked swift and intently to the rhythm of my name. 

Even if your voice cracks like an instrument too close to its amp, I'll appreciate it all the same

Like a harmonic I'd otherwise have missed...

Because when you do those things...

Touch me without fair warning 

Though I've built up my resolve since that jaded game of doctor 

There are still holes that childish, reckless Life has made and yet to patch up
Life can be a very pride-less artist at times, I think
Hands working at conveyor-belt speed and lacking an artisan's touch
And it puts me back in that powerless, scared, just-do-what-you-must-and-leave-me-be
State and feathers begin to sprout along the contours of my arms
I hear the wind begin to whoosh in unity with the clouds
Flight beating my fight
I just want to leave
I just need to leave

I'm sure this will make me rather hard to love, let alone catch in my marrying years...
Which is fine,
One thing people and birds have in common is they were both never meant to be caged
But I mean,
People,
Ornithologists
Dedicate their entire lives to following birds
Understanding them
Appreciating them
So maybe a flock of my own some day isn't completely out of the question