cw: none

The canary hates when the curtains are open –
it hates the light, the bright,
the thousand stars.
It hates what a clear-view window tells it,
what it wishes it could not see.
Ignorance is bliss:
hands that hurt are wrong,
and what it knows it cannot stop knowing.
It wishes:
close the curtains.
Leave it to its darkness and vellum,
leave it to its black-ink blood and poetry:
voiceless, wingless –
but now that it knows
if the curtains are closed
it would miss it.