the blood-soaked sparrow that lives in my chest

throws itself again with new vigor against

the bars of her cage, demanding a voice. i scream

that hers is my voice, that every turn 

is on account of her 

feathery fingers flying over the keys

until my legs have no choice but to move as she bids.

 

the copywriter that lives behind my eyeballs is on strike.

long nights at the office, and we can’t even get

folger’s for the breakroom, much less a raise

for the only one doing any god damn work around here.

passed up time and time again for a flit too fast to catch.

not even a professional can stop a heart with a brain.

 

the copywriter whispers pitches like psalms

assesses and re-assembles the facts of her fury into

sound-bites that taste like ash and metal. the bird

is relentless in her quest for her own silence. her fire

inspires the earthquakes licking at me from all sides and none,

until i choke on her empty threats and die from her real one.