POLLUTING

A little black bird with red wings had never seen blood.

He asked his mother what blood was and she said it flows inside us.

He then asked if he could see it sometime and she said it's better for you not to.

One day he saw his mother on the side of a street, broken winged and shivering

She said I'm scared to die and he watched her slowly freeze, blood weeping through but not staining her coat. 

the black was too deep to conceal, he thought the red on her wing was the wound,

crescent shaped and limp.

Since that day on, the little black bird thought he was constantly bleeding.

He noticed the very exact wound on his own wing.

But it doesn't hurt, so he thought that dying must not hurt either.

He drifted by a paint-splashed ground one day, the red droplets vivid and glowing under the sun 

the same crimson shape and color his mother left behind as she crawled away 

he thought of his mother, of her lovely dusky feathers and how he used to hide under them

they were warm and soft, not even rain can percolate

he thought how he could never see her again.

he landed by his puddles of blood where he thought he was dying

he thought of his mother and her faint, sweet eyes,

her crescent shaped wound was smiling at him

he knew he was dying, he saw the bleeding outside of him

death had always been written on your skin, you spend your whole life waiting for a 

catalyst.

but he didn't know, it would hurt this much.