they been whisperin to me lately:

“time to stop. ur done. it’s over”

and their voices are like leaves, or like gravel, or layers of skin.

they need to stop; i can’t sleep with all their shifting calls.

but now that one’s flown into my window i’m fin’ly done searching, it says.

“did this fr you, brther, fr you”

but i wasn’t looking for bits

of blood

and wing

flesh every time i look up at my desk;

the rain hasn’t washed it away and it clings

against the wind, brushes against the glass and tries

to paint me something, maybe

if i can see it i’ll understand it, stop ignoring their voices

and we can all sleep together again.

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