Why The Caged Bird Doesn't Sing

I sit on the softness of the flowered cushion that adorns my window alcove, watching the strangers strolling down the streets below.1

A lace curtain covers my window and I know they can't see me staring should they chance to look up, but my heart still pounds with rhythmic fury every time someone does.2

I keep a sketchpad beside me, and I draw the ones that interest me, always wondering what it would be like to be as carefree as them again. To have the simple pleasure of a walk in the park, the simple joy taken from the scent of freshly cut grass. They don't know, they take their freedom for granted as I sit here, alone, afraid to leave the safety of this room.3

There was a time that I was like them. The outside world was once as much my domain as theirs. But it has been long since I have felt light upon my face that didn't come from cold fluorescent tubes. They call it agoraphobia. A big word. I can shorten it very easily; I simply call it safety. Outside there is pain. Inside there is not. It is simple logic to me.4

There is safety within four walls, security behind locked doors. The pain, the war, the murders, the rapes, the violence ... they cannot get me here. He cannot get me here. Here I am safe.5

They took his freedom away; for five years he will not see sunshine or walk the streets below. Just as he took my freedom away. His jail is one of guards and fences. Mine is one of fear and depression.6

One day he will be released; I never will. I watch as a lone man crosses my street and chances to look up at me. Perhaps he is wondering what hides behind the fluttering lace. Does he know it's a caged bird? But this caged bird does not sing. She simply sketches his face with trembling hands as he wanders off down the street.7