In the 17th century, pigeons used to be birds of royalty.
Domesticated for a life of pleasure
filled with riches and gifts,
they used to be birds of reverence and power—
shown off to kings and kept in
the finest of cages, groomed with the most delicate of tools.

Soon though, we abandoned them—
let them fly free when they no longer
interested us, as if they were nothing more than broken toys and
we convinced ourselves
that we were doing the right thing.

When I was a kid, I used to tell people I was the daughter of an empress.
A lost Chinese princess, who was just waiting
in America for her prince to rescue her.
I spun tales out of red silk and stories
about how I lived in a real castle, with my real mom, and my real dad.

A perfect, real, fantasy that I clung onto with
every fiber of my being because I knew
deep, deep down that I wasn’t a princess.
There was no fairytale reunion for me.

I have a soft spot for pigeons.
Even now, they’re docile creatures—
they can’t help but find solace in
those who left them, following
behind like a lost dog and

i wonder if they know that they were abandoned,
or if they’re simply waiting
for the day they can return home,
to their castles.

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