Wrist
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You told the bird you don't like the way it sits on my wrist.
You don't like how it would permanently stay.
You don't like its meaning.
And to make you happy the bird would have to sacrifice its own life in pain.
A lack of thought dictates my eyes-
these eyes of despair.
So, I dissect the rusted window frame,
with my dry fingers,
looking for a way out, but I can't leave.
I look around for an escape and see a canvas-
