Oh read Oscar Wilde's The Nightingale And The Rose. Poor bird, pouring its heart out for nothing. I find something in the story compelling to me right now...
Maybe it's not nothing that the bird died for. The bird sacrificed itself for an ideal? Isn't that what artists do? Isn't that like what Jesus did or whatever? Maybe the bird is a Christ figure?
That doesn't seem very Wilde. He was probably talking about beauty and art and all those things. Or maybe he was critiquing the pedantic, boring cry of heteronormativity, and the little queer bird is sacrificing itself on tradition's altar, grasping at a romantic ideal that's no longer valid in the modern age.
Or maybe it's a codependent bird, maiming itself for the love of a couple that has absolute nothing to do with it, and that isn't even real love, anyway. The bird's description of the lover and his perfection rings marvelously true.
All I know is that I want a bird-blood rose.