* * *
I sat, twenty minutes, watching a flock of birds fly in patterns. What could we understand if there were not the birds’ songs to guide us? The last I was this empty I remember being turned upside down shaken to be sure nothing was left. This isn’t poetry, nor a journal entry, rather, a data entry, mining what I believed to be my heart. Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing like the cold after waking up in the morning or the cold after getting out of the shower. If you lay flat on your back I could step over you. I thought my eyes would slip and fall out but they didn’t abandon me. Food is a recipe and we are eating for food poisoning. I’m faded, I’m gone. It’s 11:30 a.m. and where is the wine? It’s hard being every age when you’re you. Internal battery power, not rechargeable. Programmed into a journey of self-reflection. If you aren’t contemplating yourself you aren’t thinking at all. Regret everything because it’s how you got here. Fear everything because it’s all like a baby left to fend for itself. Suckle any tit that soothes you. Cry for the right person, they’re going to get you what you need. I’m empty because I’ve let myself be drained. Brained to defeat loving enemies. Have you been spat on by your first love? Oh, no. That’s what you don’t understand. Human fluids hold a million wonders affecting both the science and the mentality. I’m running so far on empty; the only way out is to cry into my own crevasses and hope the dark will hold me but while I’m sitting here at least I’ve the birds’ songs to mind me.
* * *
For what is the use of them now?
What you do and don’t expect from me is evident as I’m left upon your doorstep like a welcome mat for days.
Wings clipped useless a reminder of everything a bird used to be.
Clipped unclean, jagged and slowly. Every bit of freedom extracted.
Taking away a right to flight, the wound is more than physical.
Anything worth seeing becomes out of sight.
If you could have seen the world from my view, if only I could show you.
All of that is gone, memory the only way I can feel the free air anymore.
I’m given no thought as you step over me like yesterday and tomorrow, time unable to stop.
Please miss, crush me beneath boot so death’s wait won’t drag so long.
Flightless, but my song comes out when I’m alone, pitiful and weak.
When the door opens, silence, as to not let the chance for release pass me by.
Begging darkness to encompass my aching body, let me soar once more.
Swift pitch me far off into unconscious oblivion.
The door opens, this time instead of quiet I out a song sorrowful and loud.
Air breaks around me and we’re birds eye viewing a life worth leaving.
Amie Norman Walker writes poetry and fiction from Michigan. She is currently working on a multitude of writing projects in between day jobbing in the Public Sector as a medical coder. Her work can be found in XRAY, Surfaces.cx, Tragickal, Soft Cartel, and Burning House Press, with more forthcoming.