keeps mine trying to shine brighter
in the hopes that you want to line your nest with me
and my soft scar tissue.
It's a game to keep you thinking
that I am gilded and golden and not garbage,
trying to fool your bird heart into treasuring one man's trash.
You're too clever for those games.
Sapphire ruffling and emerald blinding,
ever hesitant of what these cat claws are able.
I’ll admit that though I've played with fire
I still tremble when you get close.
Prairie storms have nothing on flurries of feathers
Or the chinook arch of your back.