I have wings and a beaky face and perch on the roof of the station to watch the trains come in. I’m a little like an insect – I suck nectar out of the faces of all the pretty flowers that give me life. I crack up when I see my venom go in. I know it hurts but I must eat too, for I am like all other living things. Except, I do not get to live.
When I saw you I should have known you were no good for me. I could see the red: it could have been wine, it could have been blood. You were already gone. Stagnant and old. You didn’t need me and I couldn’t use you.
I settled on your head and looked at your eyes. Normally when eyes see me they show fear, they show horror and then they roll back – my job is done. But when I looked into your eyes, your light was already gone. And I only saw myself. Two curled wings behind me, barely there – delicate like a child’s breath. I saw my beaky face, a long spine for a nose and a mouth in one. My needle full of poison.
I wish I had never seen myself. For I was a monster, not a bird and not an insect. I wasn’t even like you with your glassy, dead pig eyes. The sun was rising and the first train was approaching on the tracks. I went to turn my head away from your cold stare, I felt fear and then I felt horror. I realised my own reflection had cruelly tricked me.

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