I told my old lady once that every one from my daddy to my boss has tried to make me fly straight.
My heart broke while telling her that I couldn’t be held to any ground, couldn’t trim my legs, couldn’t stop being out there in the world, surrounded by everything I could touch and if I got burned then that was the way it was going to be.
“”Freebird” is my song,” I choked. I could see the tinge in her eyes, the painted red around the pupils, my reflection in those glossy green ocular orbs stretching wide my quivering lips from ear to silly-shining ear.
“”Freebird”’s your song?” she smiled. “You couldn’t be any more generic.” She walked out of my apartment laughing all the way down the stairs.
