El pajarillo la lengua tiene por cuchillo.
He who curses others only hurts himself. That’s the saying. It caught our eye because it doesn’t say that birds sing the praises of life, it says that birds curse, with words sharp as knives.
People only hear what they want to hear. There’s a little girl listening to a birdsong. She likes it very much. She thinks birds sing to let us know how wonderful this world is. That birds sing to do their part in keeping beauty alive. Lucky girl, she will never know that isn’t the case.
Birds only know how to sing curses because they tried to change the world and they failed. Singing is all they have left. And that is what they do, as soon as dawn breaks and shines light on their failure.
But not all curses target the world. There are caged birds that have never laid eyes on the outside world and never will. One of those birds sings for the little girl that every morning keeps an ear on its cage. That bird sings, cursing its cage, cursing the little girl. But its tongue is a knife that only hurts that bird. Because the cage can’t hear it sing and the little girl only hears what she wants to hear. She lives in a beautiful world, and the tongue of that bird will never knife it to shreds.
I am a pretty songbird, why would I look daggers at you? I have a gift, and I am not about to let it go to waste. My tongue is the only dagger worth sharpening. Let me sing for you. Let me replenish your hope, don’t go bleeding out on me. You put me in this cage because you wanted a taste of beauty, and I am willing to give it to you. I am not miserable, I will never lose my voice. I thrive on your disappointment, my jailer. Come closer and let me sing beauty in your ear.
I gave it a try, but dolls aren’t my thing. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favor of putting a curse on those who have wronged me. It’s just that, to my mind, pins go with hopes. Why would I wish anybody ill when raising their hopes is so much more satisfying? I would never kick somebody that’s already down. That’s not how you deliver a deathblow. I see hearts as red balloons. I’m dying to burst them as much as you, but I am saving my birdsong. Until those hateful balloons are about to touch the sky.
I am a songbird. Do you really think that my life’s ambition is traveling the globe? We invented birdcages long before you even thought of playing with sticks. Songs aren’t just beautiful dreams. They are possessive. The tightest embrace. Nothing lives up to them, nothing will ever come between a song and its bird. You might have heard that blood is thicker than water, but that doesn’t apply to birds like me. There’s a red song in my veins. It drowns out the outside world, reducing it to a silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. That’s what indifference looks like.
I am distrustful by nature, I never leave anything to chance. Daggers to the heart are all well and good, but I never forget to dip them in poison first. Most everyone knows that birds have hollow bones, but not everyone knows that people have hollow hearts. There’s a chance I would strike air, that’s why I don’t aim to hurt feelings. I go for the wings. For the stomach. That’s how you ruin a life. It’s a pity, but flowery curses give no guarantees and I want results.
Cage is such an ugly word. Why don’t you think of it as an exoskeleton, my love? If you sang out there on some tree, your song might not go unheard, but I promise you that it would go unappreciated. Breathing and bleeding. Eating and sleeping. That’s not what defines you anymore, my love. In my ears you are a thing of beauty, and my eyes couldn’t agree more.
Isn’t envy the emotion behind every birdcage? Birds fly, we don’t. If we can’t, neither should they. Isn’t it as simple as that? But that’s the world, not some bird. Are you wondering what it has that I don’t? The sun, of course. I want to revolve around something too. But I wasn’t blessed with a passion. So you see, I had no choice but to put a curse on everybody else.
Here today, gone tomorrow. Most birds live by those words. But emotions don’t come and go like clockwork. Hope stayed in the box. It’s why music had to be caged. I don’t know when I will be feeling blue. Winter skies are that color too. And I can’t be expected to wait half a year for their return.
I remember singing. You should take it with a grain of salt, of course. Who knows, I might just be describing a photograph, it’s my earliest memory, after all. Then I hummed. And now I just smile. The birdcage’s door slammed shut, and my lips took their cue from that deafening noise. Now there is only silence in my mouth. And a little bit of hatred between my teeth. But that should be our little secret, don’t you think?