You say you love me— yet you crush my bluebird mid-song. You call me a liar; yesterday I rehearsed suicide, today I think of trees. This fragile heart ticks like an old wound. Sunlight forgets my address, temples stay silent, so I sit with dead philosophers. I laugh at myself— there is no fool greater. You praise my poems but never asked why the ink ran dry. Maybe the air I breathe is tainted, maybe my letters drift to no one, maybe my poems are a mess— but I worship the mess, because I live among monsters— ministers, governments, even gods— all trying to strangle the bluebird. The dead poets shield him. He runs—far from humans, farther from gods who birth monsters. He runs, he weeps his nights away, yet must survive among liars like you. So he hides inside my rib cage, singing a song you will never hear.