There are only the birds left: geese that glide
through seasons, slide through the folds of this
nightmare. In this version, the winter never ends &
the birds bleed from the sky like snowfall. When
the geese become more than ghosts, you hide the
worst version of yourself with the other skeletons.
Don’t mistake survival for freedom. This building
is a birdcage & the birds are your broken bones,
bound to your body. You wait for winter to unwind
into a small-boned spring until the secrets
unfold with time & seep through to the snow, a medley of
memory. You are the body of a haunted house &
your spine bends into a sigh, asking for the cold
to end in a language of seasons & sadness. The
birds swallow your shadow & turn your footprints into
feathers—they always leave something behind.
Iris Meyer is a teen writer and student from California. Her work has appeared in FEED and poetically mag. She tweets @irismwrites.