You did not know what to think of me.
I was a young bird cupped in your palms. My heart beat frantically, but my wings remained folded under your fingers.
You did not know what to do with me.
I was beautiful, but not in the way you expected. I was mottled and gray and brown and dull. I was subdued, yet radiant. It struck you wrong.
You did not know what to make of me.
I was half-formed to your eyes. I required guidance and a wisdom only you could provide, so you provided for me. With your help, I wilted.
It turned out you did not see me.
One morning the grays fell away and my wings stirred. I stretched, tested the strength of your walls and found there was space. I grew.
It turned out you did not want me.
The richness of my color, my depth, my brilliance; I was unexpected. I was no longer dull or small. I found my voice and sang.
It turned out you did not hear me.
But I sang just the same. My voice rang true and shattered your expectations. I lifted myself up. I flew, free.