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A recorded reading of “Where the Birds Go When She Bleeds”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
She wore her wound like jewelry— a clockface dripping seconds she could never reclaim. Birds crowned her, wings stitched to scalp, beaks sharpened on her thoughts. They came not to comfort, but to witness— a parliament of pretty things perched on pain like flowers faked in a funeral vase. She did not scream. She did not blink. The blood trickled obediently down the necklace of her former name. Each droplet sang in a pitch only birds could mimic. And they did— with sweet mimicry, they chirped her grief back to her in harmony. You ask if she’s alive. That’s not the right question. She’s listening. And the birds are still singing.
Lyrics
She wore her wound like jewelry— a clockface dripping seconds she could never reclaim. Birds crowned her, wings stitched to scalp, beaks sharpened on her thoughts. They came not to comfort, but to witness— a parliament of pretty things perched on pain like flowers faked in a funeral vase. She did not scream. She did not blink. The blood trickled obediently down the necklace of her former name. Each droplet sang in a pitch only birds could mimic. And they did— with sweet mimicry, they chirped her grief back to her in harmony. You ask if she’s alive. That’s not the right question. She’s listening. And the birds are still singing.
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