Down here, in the belly of forgetting,
the walls chew us to pulp—
battery birds breaking their wings
against the bars of a silence
too loud to escape.

Love is a blade sharpened by whispers,
passed hand to hand—
friends carve their initials
into the soft of my back.
I taste the betrayal in their laughter,
bright and bitter
as a dying sun.

She said, “Take him,”
but I wanted no one.
This is the ritual of erasure:
the dance of ghosts
learning the weight of their absence.

Another blackout,
another convulsion of the soul.
I have seen my body revolt,
watched it crucify itself—
a lesson in sacrifice
no one asked to learn.

They call me shattered,
feed me the poison of their prescriptions.
“Fix yourself,” they say,
as if drowning is a cure.
Madness has learned the shape of me,
and now it fits like a second skin.

Hope is a liar
standing at the edge of my grief,
offering promises
she never means to keep.
Courage is a trickster,
a juggler of rage and ruin.

I pressed my hands together once,
but no god answered.
Only the echo of my suffering
returned,
swelling to fill their hunger
like cheap wine.

Now, I laugh—a feral thing
tearing at the carcass of dreams.
I sing to the darkness,
let it hold me close.
Sweet decay,
kiss my mouth until I am unmade.
Until even the stars
forget how to spell my name.