And now.
They want me to paint my words.
‘Take a seat.’
I’m not supposed to know.
That this room is empty.
‘Tell me what brought you here.’
Not you.
She does not know that she holds her mouth tight.
Or why.
That it twists like old rope as she grapples.
Leaning forward?
Don’t do that.
Her ‘sorry’ is a shabby stand in.
‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’
Oh I bleed.
As she drones on,
I abandon her there.
My body is left in her blue faux leather upholstered chair.
I’m kicking loam with the black birds outside.
Beneath the laurel beyond her window.
I’m one of them.
A wildling.
My broken wing may kill me.
But I must and will be free.
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