A poem by Trista Edward

Little Bird

It comes out of nowhere

like a fever, this shadow

that flits in my brain

whispering bad deeds

so base and petty

I can’t help but wonder

how good it would feel

to hurt you. Here it is:

I lay still in bed

but I project myself back,

years ago, to a party.

In a dark bedroom,

I find your drunk body

passed out, slumped

in a chair. The little bird

lands on a pair of silver

shears so bright they shine

like a moon in my hand.

You rustle but do not wake.

The tangle of hair nesting

around your head is what

I came for. Those long tresses

calling to be hacked

& chopped so we could

both be ugly & powerless.

The little bird pecks & pecks

at my eyes until all that guides me

is the crisp sound of the blades

slicing into your mane.

The best part is nobody

will find us & I can finish

the job & leave you to find yourself

torn, as if by ghost.

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