can you hear it?
it's scraping at the surface just
beneath my skin
it's mewling thrashing crying out for
release
can you feel it?
it's pulsing violently against my ribcage
jerking the ligaments and tendons
setting each nerve on
fire
can you see it?
it's fluttering frantically behind my eyes
it's calling out to you
why can't you see it?
look
it's pushing sweat through my pores it's painting my face with tears my body is trembling with the force of it now why can't you see
the hurt?



you know
when you climbed on top of me
pinned my limbs to those familiar sheets i almost believed that you would free me
that you would tear this useless carcass open and let my skeleton
breathe
but all you did was tighten my locks and i have
never
felt more trapped

You flit gracefully
from treetop to treetop
singing your sweet, altruistic song.
You're wonderful like this.
Chirping and warbling as you do,
your voice is vibrant and warm and fond and
everything that I'm not.

I'm awfully sorry to rip you from your perch
but I can barely hear your gentle tune from down here.
I love it when you flutter softly down beside me, far,
far from the sky where you
belong.

Oh, little bird.
Oh, my graceful songstress,
you cannot stay with me.
Look at how the leaves ripple and quiver
in the wind.
Look at the other birds chattering and twirling
in the air.
Somewhere in your generous, overflowing heart,
you long to join them in their dance.

Your songs to me are fainter, sadder
than what I know you can sing.
What I know that you can feel.

Doesn't it strain your wings
to fly so close to the ground?
Believe me, the memories I have of you chittering beside me
are among my most cherished,
but you have to know that you are the most
beautiful
in the bright, blue sky.
I'll only ever be happy when I see you
fly
freely again.

Forgive me.
Little bird.
You guileless siren, you.
It appears
as though
my heart beats
with a
new emotion
now.
One that I can't, shouldn't explain
just yet.

But please.
Detach yourself from me.
It's much better this way.
For the both of us.

the window to your soul has
shattered
into millions of razor sharp shards
and when I reach out to touch you,
the real you,
I cut myself on the pieces
each sliver tracing angry, red lines
across my flesh.

I draw my hand back.

The wounds stay.