cw: abuse coached in metaphor, similar body horror to the previous poem

Behind close doors, it comes out –
all those things you never show
to anyone but the canary,
turned useless from a lack of voice.
After all, nobody would believe it,
and it’s your canary, so it’s your right:
to pluck out every feather in its wings,
and store it in a too-tight cage
and tell it that it’s all its fault.
You wouldn’t hurt it if it
wasn’t such a failure, wasn’t so bad;
you try so hard, you see,
but it just brings out
all the worst in you.

And the canary wants to scream,
but all the gas and smoke ruined it.
So when you rip out its heart
and tell it to look you in the eyes
while you devour all its innocence,
it says nothing.