in the eighteenth winter of my life
I and the songbird of the sea
were one and the same. she was a melody
echoing the first death of my heart. it went gently

or so she tells me.
like a whisper of wind,
though it felt more like
an adder’s kiss.
she held my hand and told me,
“little bird, breathe. we will be okay.”
looked me in the eyes, the dusk in hers,
as I watched the blood.
drops dripping, dropping.

the razor-blade taped to the bottom of the desk
is gone now,
though the girl who burns
remains.