Wounded Bird

I’d like to say I understand what the fuck you’re going on about, 

but I don’t. 

I sit here, listening to your circular logic, 

and wonder how many women you’ve tried to bury you’re shame in. 

Shambling in like a wounded bird, 

pecking at their ankles beneath the hems of their skirts, 

and maybe a little further up... 

Did they pick you up, stroke your throbbing head and soothe your pain? 

You were the one who thrust his wings into the mangle. 

Poor little self-damaged cuckoo bird, you entered the nest under false pretenses, 

but now you’re overgrown, 

still seeking new nests that don’t quite fit. 

Will you lay your egg in some unsuspecting woman’s womb? 

Will another man raise your child? 

Will you feed off the delicious nectar of false sentiment forever? 

You’ve moved from sex to spirituality, 

yet we’re still wading through the same sticky lies. 

Lies more unclean than misplaced unwanted come on my thighs. 

And part of me licks it all up, 

grateful even, 

because I too want a balm to my insignificance. 

Baubles and trinkets to fill my inner gaping hole. 

Is this the left-over slops of a worn out love? 

Should I be drinking this? 

Later there will be nausea, pain, disorientation,

the body revolts at contamination, however its drunk down. 

But now, 

I listen. 

And sift through the flotsam for the the glint of something hard and crucial to hold onto.