Why did I let the bluebirds die, For chirping at my sill? Why didn’t I sob instead? Why did it feel sweeter to kill? They sit and chirp and sing all day, Resting petals at my door. Pink and creamy ivory bouquets, That I leave to rot right on the floor. Scowling in front of the mirror at dawn, I pace ‘til I dull the rug in my room. While the bluebirds plague me with their voice, And pity me as I succumb to my gloom. I am exactly who I don’t want to be, The thought tickles me in the spine. A spot of blush and a glass of venom, I thought they would make me divine! The birds, they’ve gone, I miss them so, They tasted my fear and flew. Only the carcass of remorse remains, Reminding me of you.