Tell me how the birds dropped dead when you held them. Tell me of the scraped knees, and razor blades beneath your pillow. Speak to me in the language you learnt in high school, how your name translates to nightstand. Tell me of the pain that comes from housing too many in you when you are only chalk powder, in fact, tell me how you kicked yourself out your own skin for them. Tell me of the trees you turned candle, of the butcher’s son you took last summer; tell me about the kindness of crows, and your secrets that darkened their once rainbow wings. Tell me how the devil never sat at your table, and how you fed belligerence even after your mother told you to lock him in the kennel. Tell me how you learnt Mozart by cracking knuckles against teeth, tell me of that time in middle school when your teacher asked who your role model was, tell me how you whistled Atlas through your tooth gap and when the teacher asked why, you only knew you didn’t want anyone else to hurt. Tell me how your heart is a pendulum. How the crows took flight with your story, and never came back.