Amidst the wildflowers, I surrendered my name,

the petals of sleep curling against my skin,

naked, I crawled through the earth's quiet flame,

your gaze—an echo, a memory, a sin—

the mirror, a thief, cradled the shadow of him.

He gorges on my mistakes, a swollen moon,

pale and taut with the salt of my guilt.

Each night, he leans close, his breath like frost,

presses a kiss to my brow, cold as bone,

and whispers forgiveness I cannot believe.

I let him speak,
his words uncoiled like smoke
in the quiet room,
each sentence a serpent
wrapping itself
around the soft throat of the night.

He spoke of boredom,
of voices like dead birds
falling from the trees,
of his hands
searching the air
for the tender pillars of life,
and squeezing,
until silence became a god.

I listened uneasily,
my breath a quiet river,
my heart a stone
sinking into its depths.
His voice brushed against my skin,
and I held it,
like holding a flame
bare-handed.

Then he stopped.
The silence cracked.
His fingers felt my pulse—
a stillness I could not hide.
It betrayed me.
But I, too,
held his hand,
offering my quietness
as a gift,
a wall,
a mirror.

Now I wake in another room,
safe from his dreaming.
But the night carries his voice,
a tide that laps against
the shore of my memory.

Did I save myself?
Did I save him?
Or are we both
adrift in the dark sea
of what was left unsaid?

Bite down ******* my tongue, the hiss between channels—
shards of unspoken words rattle in my jaw,
half-born specters of what-could-be,
swallowed before they can crawl into light.

You.
You.
Carving hieroglyphs in the meat of my chest—
soft flame against black walls,
smoke signals I can’t decipher.
You unmake me with hands that don’t even know
what they’re holding.

Silence is a weapon.
Silence is a fistful of razors.
Fear grows teeth in the shadows,
glass splinters fracturing into weapons
before the crack, before the shatter.

And I keep it locked—this thing, this ache,
this soft, bleeding confession choking
on its own edges behind my teeth.
Because words are dangerous.
Because you don’t know the shape of my ruin
and I don’t want you to see
the mess of it spilled between us.

So I swallow.
Again and again.
And hope one day you’ll
read the maps I’ve etched
into the silence
of my breaking.

You lean on me, the horizon you forget to name.

I hold the weight of your storms,

turning them into songs the earth understands.

When I am gone, the wind grows teeth,

and your words, sharp as broken shells, scatter.

Yet I remain, woven into the weave of your breath,

an ache, a promise, a steady drumbeat of love.

He kissed her knuckles, a pale benediction,

and left as the monsoon swallowed the sky whole.

Thunder cracked like bones beneath her skin;

her cigarette hissed, an ember fighting the wet.

His letters, damp with ink, bled the lies she read.

The day we met, my world folded in on itself,

Jasmine wilting in my hair, petals falling like warnings.

You held me like a lifeline, but the ground still opened,

Swallowing me whole before I could learn your name.

Now I want you gone, not just from my skin,

But from the archive of my grief,

Erased from the map of my heart, its borders sealed.