The birds on her back are beautiful.
Like blue ink bruises in feathered brushstrokes.
The bitter song in her mouth, the one that bursts from its beak.
Both broken. Both begging to be let out.
The beautiful birds on her back are:
Blue bottle kisses of blacked out nights.
The boys and girls of summer sex and cigarettes,
Slowly seeping into songs unfinished. The scent of sunrise.
Sonic soliloquies sounding silently.
The beautiful birds on her back are:
Beginning to breathe.