Gossips
They sit like crows on the telephone wire,
balancing their hunger on a single rumor.
The air between them is fat filled with death,
words slick as rain on a nasty windshield.
They don’t mean harm—at first—
just the small thrill of opening a secret’s door.
But soon, the room fills with your name,
the syllables tasting like fire and smoke on their tongues.
When they talk about others, they stitch you in—
your face rising from the fabric of their chatter,
your laugh mistaken, your sorrow guessed.
They feed on the echo, never the truth.
And you—listening—feel their beaks graze your skin harshly.
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