You hit me
with news that squeak
like rats. Escaping.
I eye each one of them,
fighting the instinct of an inner cat
inside me.
I can’t.
I just can’t chase
every word you throw at me –
there’s too many of them
for one little me.
I’ve been given a choice
that wasn’t one after all,
so I escape too –
like the colour from a rosebud.
I know I have to leave
and drain all presence of me
into the river that’s
you –
been poisoned with other colours already,
and no matter how vivid they once were,
they are dirty brown
now.
But I’m staying pure.
White.
An antonym of this messy situation.
I’m done,
leaving you to lick your guilt
sparkling clean
yourself.
– Chatty Owl –


