Hope is a black bird.

Hope is a black bird.
I fell for the boy with the pout painted perfect on his lips. I fell fast and am now waiting miserably for the ground to come up to meet me and surround me, creating a big black room for me to sleep in. To sleep and dream of memories like black birds with oily feathers with love in their eyes and pain in their beaks. Birds who fly over miles of earth, dry and cracked like my unkissed lips and fan my fevered memories with their wings. Birds that shelter my eyes from hope's rays of sunlight as they peck out any mercury drop of love left in me.

I fell for the boy with the pout painted perfect on his lips. I fell fast for the guitar strums and notes that hang on the air like eloquent insults. I am now waiting for my bones to shatter on impact with truthful solidity.

Hope is a black bird with broken wings.