The Birds' Concubine

I sit upon a blind and unyielding fence. Hair windblown. Wild, unkempt.
A conspiracy of ravens strung out upon a wire, cawing their depravity.
A murder of crows gnawing on the otherside, dabbling in the branches of a gaunt and sublime elder tree. Watching me with their baleful eyes.

Slowly I withdraw the thin line, and crossstitch my wrist, the blood dropping to the ravens, my left side. Then I slash my right wrist, droplets falling to the opposite side. Weakened from blood loss, I dangle my feet in the air, carefree as I watch the birds on either side.