Little Bird

I have received my first assignment for creative writing.
And it's to write one good poem, and one horrible, awful, disgusting one.

I hate it when professors think re-using your poems or stories is hurting you. Sure, if you're just doing it so you never have to write anything new ever again, yeah, you are.
But I wrote this poem for the-creative-writing-class-from-hell, and I had to revise it for my final, and I want feedback on it, so I'm handing it in as the "good" poem.

As for the bad poem, you'll have to use your imagination.
But trust me. It sucks.

Anyway, I thought I'd post it here, because some people saw the earlier stages of it, and some people haven't seen it at all. I'm going to make an effort to update this blog more often, even if juggling school, work, writing books, and getting one ready for the world might kill me. It's worth it.

So here you go.

                                                             Little Bird  

There is a part of you that smiled when it tore out my tongue.
I saw it, underneath the stain.

You tried to cover it with your alcohol soaked pillow,
Your tear streaked blanket.

Trying to hide how proud you were
As your yellowed curtains drowned us.

And solid white teeth slipped over my lips.
A cry got stuck in my throat,
Like a thread pulled too tight.

The muscles contract.
Cramp up.
Go limp.

Some piece of you clings to my ribcage.
I can feel it, under the heavy cloud of sleep.
Trying to claw its way free in the darkness.

I am always so still.

Waiting for that moment
When it all finally collapses.

The canary, fluttering around blind,
Smacking its beak against my chest,
Finds a way out.

And a sigh escapes me
Like it makes any difference.

The bones move, expand before they break.