Blood Moon

There’s a path in the woods where I left my heart nailed to a tree. The birds have made a nest out of the muscle – they all look like cardinals now. Red feathers glistening wet in the light; sparking flight, dripping blood off the wing like rainwater. How happy they could make a home out of the empty space – those sweet scavengers, singing soft their song through my ventricles.

I thought I would sleep better now, but I pace the halls during the night. I can still hear the beat of it – the pulsating swell of forest tapping gently against my window. The trees ask, Did you think you could just get rid of it? And the leaves laugh. I am not sure what I thought. I only know that I was more metaphor than marrow. And I couldn’t cry anymore.

I held the hammer in my hands, and it didn’t hurt – but now I hold my hollow chest and try – there are no tears – only the vast, dark sky. And those birds, still circling.

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