A blackbird will perch herself
in the corner of my window;
her head tilting in curiosity
as his hand
will cause my cheek
to burn red.

What do birds think about?
What can they do?

Too often I will turn to the blackbird
to beg for her to save me
from the hell that I will not leave.
My heart
is encompassed by the cage that
will not allow for it to throb
with the pain that the rest of my body feels.

Will she help?
Will she hear my pleas?

He hears me.
He finds it amusing.

He will laugh as his fingers wrap
one by one around that birdie’s neck,
using the shards of my heart
to dig into the feathers
that adorn her body.

The blood is invisible
against the black of her back,
but a metallic stench
will fill the air.
It is something that will have sent me to the emergency room
one too many a time.

Her song will not be silenced,
although the beautiful melody that once
separated her beak;
a joyous sound,
is replaced by the snap of her bones.
It is not until this moment
that I will be pulled from my trance.

Once he is satisfied,
he will pluck a single feather
from the back of what is left of that little birdie,
and he will attach it to the quill
that he uses
to grant me my death wish;
loving him.