
you plucked out too many of my cyan-tinted f e a t h e r s while modelling me into a stuffed poetic b i r d wings got too heavy with your lyrically infused f e a r s so i couldn’t fly away from your collector’s palace— y e t until tonight— when i slide out of this darkened room of n i g h t m a r e s leaving you behind, sleeping, in your tortuous, silent, o d d r h y m e d b e d