Record skips.
Repeats itself.
I sit in the corner.
That same note-
make it stop.

The room is dark
and blank.
My hands, covered in dirt
and blood.

You left me here
to die
with no light.
You are supposed to care.

You may have come back, but
I cannot see you,
I have clawed my eyes out.
I am starving.

My wounds fester.
Do yours?
Are you wounded?
Are you there?

The record skips.
I feel the room
shrinking. Rotting.
Help me.

Of course-
you don't.
Only help yourself
why not.

But I don't care.
I have something of yours
and it is dead.
Your gilded bird,
it is dead.

Its feathers
ripped off. I put them
in my hair.
A lovely
crown.

Its body
in pieces.
In my palm.
The blood
trickling idly from my
fingers.

Your bird is dead.
Twisted into a knot.
Once beautiful.
Now mangled, bludgeoned.
This makes me laugh.
Your bird is dead.
Like me.