there is a hum in the backdoor of my mind
collecting all the dead birds and spare parts that
have lost their shine
i haven't got anywhere to put them
so theyve coloured in my entire house
feathers swamp the living room
powders of rust inhale the kitchen
and for years i could've cracked my fingers, taken off my shoes, dug up the broom and swept the floors
clean
but ive grown used to the company,
that can't possibly hurt me,
of broken things that mostly lie still

ive grown used to sinking into walls
and changing my colour
i wither, i shrink
til i'm at the end of my wick
a fire trapped rolling under the feet of giants
once burning words careening from the sky like thunder
simmering to a breath
and i don't quite know where to look
anymore
so i don't
they cant see thoughts behind murmurs
and changed skin

let the gold bleed out,
let it paint your skin

i wonder
if i rest my hand on your chest
and fall into your skin
if i'd find the walls of your soul the colour
orange
like i've always suspected
and filled entirely of ocean
a midnight rush
thrashing, bare,
magnificent
it would swallow me whole