I am a broken thing now
All of my feathers are frayed
I hold a glass in my claws
And shiver under its weight.
The poison that heavied my soul
Was a slow, thick drink.
I was baptized in human tears
Over a hospital sink.
Or maybe I was drowned
with human blood and hair
I can’t distinguish exactly
(but it smelled like hospital air.)
I cannot watch sad films
See the actors’ broken eyes
Because my broken back
Hauls the weight of their actual cries.
The fiction is no longer fiction
It’s wrenched itself off the page
But real fiction’s worse than fiction
Since nobody filters the rage.
Nobody gives your hero
The extra chance they deserve.
They beat your hero with a bat
And crush them like a nerve.
They burn your hero with matches
And go out to watch the game
You document the wounds and regrets
And remember your hero’s name.