I don’t want gratitude
fluttering
from accusatory tongues,
because it stings
when praise is whispered
in desperation.
Treat me like a bird
and cage me all the same,
but please
don’t feed me false hope;
sheet music and
a recording studio
are cruel ways to torture
a songbird.
These wings ache
and my heart is small;
I cannot grow
when you’re collapsing
my butter ribcage.
And you wonder why
I let you down.