And I’m still lying here
on this bed made out of the carcasses
of our dying hope.

don’t call me an escapist,
I am not the one who left

open the tinted glass windows

Let the birds in.
let them scavenge through the remains of this forsaken love.
let them scavenge through the remains of this wasted life

let them build homes in places
on my body where I couldn’t.

Let tiny luminescent beetles feed on my blood.
Then see how bright they shine.
I am still lying here
on this bed made out of the carcasses of our broken dreams.

Don’t bother fixing the sink.
don’t bother lighting the fire,
should you return.

Darling, just open the windows
and sit somewhere you can hear the myenas chirp.
listen to them say,
dead is the garden of withered flowers.
dead is the the birdbath of broken feathers.

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