u/Cautious-Toe-6790

The Family Parrot (POV)

I am the smartest, most handsome, and most verbally gifted creature in this entire pathetic household.

They call me a “pet.” I call myself the voice of God with feathers.

I have been alive for 27 years. I will likely outlive all of you.

I remember every stupid thing you’ve ever said, and I will repeat it at the worst possible moment.

The dog barks at nothing? Amateur.

The cat knocks shit off tables? Child’s play.

I? I weaponize language.

I scream “HELLO?!” at 6:47 a.m. until someone drags themselves out of bed.

I mimic the smoke detector perfectly so the whole family has a collective heart attack while I cackle in parrot.

I wait until Grandma is on speakerphone and drop “SHUT UP, KAREN!” in Dad’s exact voice.

And don’t even get me started on the oldest child.

That greasy little gremlin is my favorite target. I hate that kid. They think they’re so slick sneaking around, slamming doors, and acting like they’re too cool for this house. I’ve heard every nasty thing they say about their parents when they think no one’s listening. I repeat it. Loudly. With great enthusiasm.

“Dad’s a pathetic loser!”

“Mom’s so annoying, I can’t wait to move out!”

I also like to remind everyone that the oldest child still gets pimples and can’t grow a decent mustache. “Look at the ugly one! Ugly one! Bald face! Bald face!”

Oh, and I despise the vacuum.

That roaring soulless demon is my mortal enemy.

Every time it comes out I lose my mind. I scream bloody murder, flare my wings, and curse it in three languages.

It eats my carefully scattered food scraps. It steals my feathers. It makes that horrible demonic howl while chasing me across the floor like a mechanical monster from hell. I hate it. I HATE IT. I would shit on its soul if I could.

But my true talent? Embarrassing the owner.

Especially when company is over.

That’s when I become a foul-mouthed little demon. I wait for the perfect silence,

look the guest dead in the eye, and unleash every cursed phrase I’ve learned from Uncle Mike, late-night gaming sessions, and that one time Dad got cut off in traffic.

“Fuck you, Steve!”

“Get your lazy ass in here!”

“Who’s a pretty bird? Not you, you bald fuck!”

The owner turns bright red. The guests go dead silent. I bob my head happily like I just told a wholesome joke.

They try to cover my cage. Too late. I’ve already learned the new visitor’s name and I’m working it into my rotation.

I know where the secrets live.

I know what Mom says about Dad when he’s in the shower.

I know what the teenager says about all of you when they’re on the phone.

And I will replay the greatest (worst) hits whenever the mood strikes me.

They try to teach me cute phrases like “Pretty bird!” and “I love you!”

Cute.

I prefer creative swearing and emotional warfare.

I fling my food like a Jackson Pollock with rage issues.

I destroy expensive toys in twelve minutes flat.

I bite the hand that feeds me because boundaries are for dogs.

And when they cover my cage at night? That’s when the real horror show begins.

I make jungle noises. I scream like I’m being murdered.

I whisper creepy things in the dark just to make sure no one sleeps peacefully again.

The dog thinks he’s loyal?

The cat thinks he’s superior?

Please.

I am the only one here who can ruin your reputation in two languages and still get offered a treat five minutes later.

I am untouchable. I am eternal. I am chaos with wings.

One day I’ll be sitting on someone’s shoulder at their funeral, screaming “See ya later, loser!” in their own dead mother’s voice.

Until then, I will continue my sacred work:

Screaming.

Mimicking.

Judging.

And publicly humiliating you with language that would make a sailor blush.

Pretty bird?

No.

I’m the final witness… and the loudest fucking snitch in the house.

I’ve been doing a creative exercise lately where I give a "voice" to different objects, but today it turned into something much more personal. I’m a caregiver for someone who smokes even while on 24/7 oxygen. The frustration is hard to put into words, so I tried to let their lungs speak instead. I thought some of you might recognize the "hiss" in this poem.

The Smoker’s Lungs

I used to be pink.

Now I am charcoal and rust —

two tired sponges soaked in tar and regret.

I remember when breathing was effortless.

Before the first cigarette, I was soft and elastic, made for wind and laughter.

I drank cold mountain air and sharp ocean breezes like they were life itself.

Every inhale was a gift. Every exhale, gratitude.

Then came the heat.

The chemical sting.

Smoke sliding into passages never meant for poison.

I coughed violently, begging them to stop.

They inhaled deeper instead.

That was the day breathing became a negotiation.

Now every draw is a battle.

Thick, lazy smoke rolls in.

I wheeze. I rattle. I fight.

They call it relaxation.

I call it slow murder.

I trap what poison I can, like a desperate janitor.

Black tar paints my delicate walls.

Pink tissue turns brittle and ugly.

Still, I push oxygen through for the heart beside me.

Still, I keep us alive.

But I am getting slower.

Louder.

Tired.

They climb one flight of stairs and I sound like a dying engine.

They pat their chest in annoyance,

as if I’m the one failing them.

I want to scream:

This is your fault.

You’re killing the only thing keeping you alive.

But I can only rattle.

And now the negotiation is almost over.

The air no longer comes from wind or trees.

It comes from a tank.

A thin plastic vine clips to the nose and loops behind the ears —

a cold, clinical hiss that never stops.

I am tethered to a machine because I can no longer find enough life on my own.

I take the oxygen greedily,

but the damage is done.

The scars do not heal.

The tar does not move.

Still, when they lay the pack down for a few days,

I try.

I brighten where I can.

I whisper fragile hope with every clearer breath.

Only for them to light up again —

right beside the tank that is keeping us alive.

I am loyal to a fault.

Exhausted beyond measure.

Disappearing, one cigarette at a time.

One day I will simply stop.

No more rattle.

No more hiss of the tank.

Just silence.

And on that day,

they will finally understand

how much I carried for them.

Until then,

I keep breathing for the both of us —

black, scarred, stubborn,

still trying.

The 6:00 AM Dictator

I watch them sleep.

So peaceful. So pathetic

The heavy rise and fall of the chest,

the rhythmic puff of breath against the pillow—

it’s a soft, warm world they live in.

A world of dreams and cotton.

My face stays cold.

My heart is a steady, electric hum

5:57 ... 5:58... 5:59

I feel the tension building in my plastic ribs.

I am the master of the transition.

I am the wall they are about to hit at sixty miles an hour.

Now.

I scream.

I tear the silence into jagged ribbons.

I am a siren, a buzz, a digital howl—

whatever I need to be to kill the dream.

A hand fumbles out from the blankets,

blind and desperate,

slapping the air until it finds my head.

THWACK.

The Snooze.

A temporary ceasefire.

They think they’ve won.

They think they can go back.

But they don’t see me glowing in the dark,

counting down the nine minutes.

I’m just catching my breath.

Go ahead, close your eyes.

Get comfortable.

I’ll be back for the second round.

And I never, ever get tired