BirdsThe birds are watching me. They stared at me when I left my house, so I went back inside. They watched me through the windows, so I bolted the curtains shut. Now they are listening to how my lungs expand and deflate through the cracks and peepholes in the walls and the foundation. They're trying to tell me something. I think they want to kill me.-They sing now. The sparrows, the blue jays, the finches, and the cardinals. They sing me a quiet lullaby as I lie in my bed at night. Or maybe they're mocking me. Calling me a coward. A failure. My mother always liked birds. As a child I always thought she spoke to them in a way they understood. -The mail came today. Normally I would let it sit outside my door and erode and rot in the weather, but something felt different. The birds were silent. No nursery rhymes or a-Capella jazz was bleeding through the walls. No mocking. No spies.
RazorMidnight's tawdry pulseis feeble under my fingertips,and her long black dressfeels like Augustslipping through my fingers.I like how her bones complainthat I misuse them,tender to my touch,and how her jaw arches backand the moon arcs like a razoracross the room.We flaunt the stars,the stones under our skinstretching the bed frametill we crack.And I fill you up,your arms a battleraging in the waning liesof morning.
5:31 AMi am stuck in the middle of the bed, it is 5 in the morning;the dead birds are singing to me, (again)superficial and smooth, glassy like the sea i dream inbut their metallic coos puncture my eardrums like an ax picking in a goldmine.in the absence of rain, the air is thick and palpable, andthe burning only gets worse if you think twice about it.