Birds

I spend most of my time at home hiding under my blanket on my phone, slowly sentencing my eyes to a grim, backlit decline, dissolving my brain with its comfort food: minor celebrity tweets, easy potato three ways, furious avians with no place to go.  Behind my door the collection of dirty tea cups is slowly becoming sentient; first her doona, then the world, I think I hear them whisper. One licks its chops and farts quietly as sunrise shrieks through my housemate’s window from beyond the ferris wheel.