I grew accustomed
To the rust.
To the scales of putrid orange,
Decaying green across my skin.
My cracking lips,
The metallic taste
As much from the rust
As the blood.
I never listened to the birds much anyway.
I didn't feel welcome,
As if intruding on the melody.
As far as temptation goes,
I still regret those I resisted,
As well as those I surrendered to.