"Confession from a Wounded Bird"

Thorns hidden beneath soft feathers.

"Confession from a Wounded Bird"

Oh yes,
the martyr speaks.
Perched high on a branch woven from lies,
you coo your sorrow to the sky
as though your throat never learned the sound
of betrayal.

You who wear the veil of hurt
like a costume
stitched in passive daggers
and self-ordained sainthood.

You returned
not with open arms
but with a measuring stick—
counting hours like sins,
holding stopwatch to soul,
as if love
is earned in increments
of silence.

And yet—
when the mirror showed you yourself,
you shattered it,
called the pieces his cruelty,
never your reflection.

Your words were “true”
in the way sugar hides the poison,
sweet enough to swallow,
deadly once digested.

And then,
as always,
you sign your letters
with tears
you never earned.

“My wounded bird of an ignorant heart,”
you wrote.
What poetry.
What melodrama.
What utter,
self-serving,
bullshit.

You were never a bird.
You were the trap.
The song was a lure.
And apathy—
that was the only honest thing
about you.

So leave your final message carved
into your stage-play of grief.
Keep your performer's frown,
your limp,
your halo fashioned from broken truths.

But don’t pretend it was love
that died here.

What died
was your last chance
to play your role for me.