Duckling

You are not an angel, you are a pet. I look at you through glossy eyes; I'm sorry I haven't let you go yet. We're plucking out our feathers one by one. In this second I am squished fingers in a desperate touch. I want to say something about your posture, how I noticed you're feeling blue, like the night at your place when I got way too high and sloppily told you I needed you. Instead, I say nothing because I know I'd rather not hear the answer. Instead, I sink back into the couch. I wonder what you are thinking, I never find out. Duckling, are you the ugly one? Or, duckling, is it me? Duckling, are you the ugly one? Or, darling, it's not that hard to believe.