by Sarah Lada

I.

At some point,
I am going to run out
of blood.

II.

Darling,
look at what
all of it
does to me.

III.

My eyes are up here.

IV.

I
amnotamnotamnotamnot
amnotamnotamnotamnot
a flying target.

V.

No worries,
nothing is ever
all white.

VI.

Bleeding Heart
is a flower,
not a bird.

VII.

I am Cupid’s
favorite game bird…

VIII.

…and my children
are born in nests
of broken arrows.

IX.

Audubon sketched me
without my red.
Good sir,
I was not dead.
I was not dead.

X.

After she held me,
she checked herself
for stains.

XI.

Maybelline,
Almay, Loreal,
Avon…
I have learned,
are not birds.

XII.

I am a stamp
that leaves no mark.

XIII.

I was told to quit
trying to bring peace

because all they see

is war.

XIV.

Sometimes I tell them
my beak is so sharp.
So sharp.

XV.

No, that is not
where I hurt.

XVI.

One Christmas,
I was mistaken
for a partridge.
The hook was so sharp,
the pears so sweet.

XVII.

The Bird-of-Paradise
can dance and sing.
All I do is bleed.

XVIII.

I prefer
not to wear
my heart
on my sleeve.

XIX.

Nostradamus peered into it,
and quit prophecy.

XX.

I am very clumsy
with my wine.

XXI.

Don’t worry, darling.
This is not the end.

Sarah Lada is a map, earth, and sky-gazer living in central Pennsylvania. She has been published in North Central Review, Red Clay Literary Journal, Autumn House Press, and Bella Grace Magazine.