Sharp Things

I'm dripping in feathers
and mud. Whilst trying to pull
the feathers from my flesh I bleed.
It seems so strange to taste your ways
and your bitterness on my tongue

without touching you. I can't
make sense of your flare or
how you may dare to run
and run back. I've found

my home - on your bed
of thorns...Though I think I'll sell up
and move
soon.