♡ Dolores' struggles ♡

with a crooked wing

lying in the street.

He caught it

and let it bleed

on his hands.

Contemplating solutions,

pious and merciful,

he considered to kill it.

With the most humble intentions,

not a single cruel thought

behind his eyes.

Yet he knows how I bleed

when I puke and I purge

to get rid of the shame.

He knows how I long

for the answer he thought worthy

of a little sparrow.

Then he thought of keeping it

in a box, to take care of it,

and try to raise it.

He, the smartest, determined

'He will die either way', his tone

desperate at the sight of the sad scenery.

Heartbroken before the perspective

of a little bird tweeting desperately,

fallen of their nest.

Never has he looked at me with that love, because he dare not touch me,

when I feel, in case he gets infected.

He put the little bird in a hole in the wall,

to give it warmth

in it's last moments.

He asked me to pour beer over his hands,

to clean himself,

to which I poured too much.

The look in his eyes was of disappointment,

for I had failed again

in such a simple task.

He continued smoking from a joint,

after drying his hands, still not clean,

because the infections a little bird can carry,

are nothing compared to the wicked feelings that haunt and crawl inside me.

Oh, how I long to be a little bird.

Not for your love or mercy,