Let me pick the splinters from this heart.
It starts, like a twig in the beak of a bird who should’ve known better.
And it rests, in the nest of yesterday, hidden between the bits they’ve discarded.
I’ve been busy lately, collecting; making a place where we can stay.
This house is my heart.
Let me feed you, the worms of everyone else’s disgust.
If you must, if you trust.
Let me need you more than wings. And things.
Until we fly away.