Bird song.

She is bent
Birds with bent wings struggle to fly
They beat their wings against the ground in vain, no matter how they try.
She has gravel in her throat
She can’t sing any kind of song
She is broken she is ruined
Everything she thought was wrong.
Shot down from her flight to admire her pretty wings, he took her and squeezed her, he broke her, he used her, he ruined everything.
A hunter is only as good as his aim
He hit the mark
Took her down
She is all there is to blame.
Staring down the barrel of his gun she thought he’d want to hear her song
He pulled the trigger, bent her wings, spit in her face.
She was wrong.
A hunter can’t apologize. He can’t take back all his shots fired and lie filled eyes.
He can’t undo a bullet hole. He can’t take back the havoc that he’s sewn.
He chose better flocks to hunt
Birds with better songs and prettier wings
But he said he was sorry, as if knowing she is second best can fix everything.


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