Like Birds

I wrote my shame
on the corner of my paper, and tore it off
to feed the birds. They gather
the shards and build a nest in diligence marked
with white.
There they live
happily and I watch them from my window.
They're learning to sing and so am I. We're unlike
one another but they have a strange part of me, something
secret.
Except they've been made fools. They dance
about their stick and paper home in the weeping tree, and
never leave but once or twice to
gather food. They may feel afraid.
They may fear the outside. And their quiet sanctuary
is false protection, for it's made up of
everything I'm running from.