This tilted mirror shows what once was
The me I felt most alive in. A small bird perched
On a branch, on my finger, in my hair.
She was always with me.
We are a jilted person.
Disconnected and abandoned.
I am sorry, bird, but I will
No longer hear your song.

Your life is not mine.
And the confusion spreading like flame
Burns me half to death.
But you... You are not a Phoenix.
You aren't allowed to crackle.
Ashes don't come from you, bird.

You just simply die.