Release

Songs about building houses,

burning towns, first sunrise,

and forevers;

while a decomposing pigeon behind my balcony's door

begs to be buried or thrown away.

If I had opened the door last week

and let it fly away

it would have been dead still but

not on my conscience.

And what is bad and what is evil

and what is acceptable and what is not,

and when should tolerance give up

and when must the waiting end

and what must be the tipping point

for trust,

and for faith.

I keep piling up my table with

unread books, blank diaries,

bookmarks,

empty food containers, unsharpened pencils,

unopened letters,

questions, my bare backside as

strangers pound me in their own surprise,

"why would a woman like her let me in?"

after they leave

I sit at the same table to repeat

the mistakes I promised to have learnt from.

All this while, a corpse

melts more behind the door of my balcony.

Why haven't I cleaned it yet?

It's release thar we all want, yes?

If I must not have it yet,

I won't give it just yet too.