When Do We Fly Home

I'm the flock of birds gently dipping their feathers in the water, reaching for a taste of something like a lust for life because my insides keep fucking rotting and the only thing that makes me feel alive is a taste of death. I'm the flock of birds covered in black, molested by an oil spill, stuck in black tar, wanting so desperately to clean off reality because the more real everything gets the more disgusted I become. I'm the flock of birds suffocating on the trash people left behind because they were too inconsiderate to consider that there were other lives, and now I suffer on the aftermath of you because you say you care but my chest continues to erode until my emotions are nothing but an empty shell and I almost hate you. I'm the flock of birds a shooter gets to choose from because I can never be free, there's always something there to just tear a massive gaping black chasm in my soul, so very deep that I get swallowed up inside of my own need for an endless existential silence.