cuckoo

the irony of
the anxiety in waiting
becoming the new
anxiety at finally
receiving a response
is not lost
as i watch the date
slink closer and closer
to cordial
rejection or
acceptance
eight and half months
spent dreaming
and in scant days
an answer must be had

i poured
too much of myself
into something
rendered subjective
and either way
chances are
i am ill prepared
to handle it

seventy six thousand
words bled out
two hundred and
fifty nine days of
sheer silence
an unstoppable force
meeting this
unsupressed anxiety
a tornado of tiny cuts
desanguinate the fool
leaving a shrunken corpse
frantically staring
at the calender

what started out
as a snide response
became a reflection
of a broken mindspace
the clock strikes midnight
the tiny door
creaks open
and i wait to see
the yellow tit take flight

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