i’m the rook
that took to my branch,
tree of silhouette lightning,
pecking the pelt off my prey
i’m casting them away for the sport of it.
if i take off,
like how the tide that comes and crashes,
foam and salt spitting,
eventually draws back, retreating back to the sea,
i won’t return in the same familiar form.
thorns for feet, a midnight beak.
i’ll take refuge in knowing you shan’t
remember me
but i’m the rook that pierced you,
strung you
hung you on my tree.
chronically good at leaving before i’m left
