A poem by Trista Edward
![ethan-sykes-tBJ2UIE9VyE-unsplash.jpg](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5e54125c23dd6a6139f09da1/1588367954947-G0W38YGPZ9EYW175BZ4J/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kMXRibDYMhUiookWqwUxEZ97gQa3H78H3Y0txjaiv_0fDoOvxcdMmMKkDsyUqMSsMWxHk725yiiHCCLfrh8O1z4YTzHvnKhyp6Da-NYroOW3ZGjoBKy3azqku80C789l0luUmcNM2NMBIHLdYyXL-Jww_XBra4mrrAHD6FMA3bNKOBm5vyMDUBjVQdcIrt03OQ/ethan-sykes-tBJ2UIE9VyE-unsplash.jpg)
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.
FOLLOW TRISTA EDWARDS