Cage

If I were a bird, that would be nice. To be caged by you-divine, these splendid, bloody wings of mine. Agony clings, yet I still crave, every shred, a sweet, dark grave. I hear the others as they cry, caged in silence, left to die. Some beg your touch, some beg their lives-I beg no freedom, only the knife. And still, you let me go. Now all the pens bleed their ink slow.