Cuttlebone Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

If I have to make myself
smaller and smaller
to live with you, I won't.
I'd rather not.
I'd rather leave,
or tie my own garrote
than swallow what you pour.
Sour grapes on the vine:
you're wasting my time.

I'm tired of sitting alone,
watching from the window
the lightning in the storm
rattle the panes
when you leave to sound off,
to return later,
saying forgive me now.

Watching from the doorway
the lightning fork its tongue,
looking at me like it's me
that doesn't belong.

If I have to listen
to any more playground name-calling,
empty threats for a reaction,
I won't. I'll desist into silence,
leave without a reply,
feign death like a yellow canary.

A canary that has lost its song,
thrown away its cuttlebone
once used to sharpen its bill,
for another home
where a new song will rise
like a scream with no sound: see me, respect me.