Saw/ate sad bird
︎︎︎ Sarp Sozdinler
︎ June 3, 2026
Rat blood must shine nicely under neon.
And, given the state of your lost children,
darkness has become a utility one would desire. Out of nowhere
a body bag blooms by the laundromat. Horror comes afterward,
when the storm washes away. The nail worries the scab,
coaxing its red mouth open. Stuffing it with tinfoil.
Best diagnosed at a kicked hive, this court-appointed therapist
says I am a hostage animal eating the ransom note.
Yeah, sure, spit out every vile little myth about me, unmothered.
Maggots under the fruit bowl christen the peaches,
ruining breakfast. All your trapdoors swing inward,
and impact makes one religion of every floor.
It’s the household poisons. My beautiful bad intentions
and the meat-length of my arms. I mostly keep quiet
in the culvert, smiling wrongly at the water in the bowl.
And, given the state of your lost children,
darkness has become a utility one would desire. Out of nowhere
a body bag blooms by the laundromat. Horror comes afterward,
when the storm washes away. The nail worries the scab,
coaxing its red mouth open. Stuffing it with tinfoil.
Best diagnosed at a kicked hive, this court-appointed therapist
says I am a hostage animal eating the ransom note.
Yeah, sure, spit out every vile little myth about me, unmothered.
Maggots under the fruit bowl christen the peaches,
ruining breakfast. All your trapdoors swing inward,
and impact makes one religion of every floor.
It’s the household poisons. My beautiful bad intentions
and the meat-length of my arms. I mostly keep quiet
in the culvert, smiling wrongly at the water in the bowl.
Sarp Sozdinler is a writer based in Philadelphia. He edits The Bulb Region.
Also by Sarp: Her Cold Teeth
Also by Sarp: Her Cold Teeth