And she, in her quiet torment, bore the weight of a thousand sorrows,
her heart a vessel cracked by the tides of betrayal.
The years, like autumn leaves, fell away,
each one a whisper of love's illusion,
each one a thread torn from the tapestry of her being.

She gazed upon him, the architect of her undoing,
his slumber a mockery of peace.
His promises were but shadows, fleeting and insubstantial,
like petals scattered by the wind,
trampled beneath the careless march of time.
And the sea, ancient and eternal, called to her,
its voice a hymn of solace,
a beckoning to let the weight of her shame
be carried away by its ceaseless waves.

They moved together, bound in a dance of anguish,
their steps etched into the earth like scars.
Love and hate wove their lives into a single thread,
a cord that choked her spirit and set her soul aflame.
He was the mirror in which she saw too much,
his truths a blade that cut too deep.
Each night, she drank from the chalice of despair,
her soul dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

Outside, the reeds wept with the rain,
bending beneath the weight of unspoken grief.
She thought of forgiveness, a fragile bird,
its wings clipped by her pain.
She thought of escape, a door locked from within,
and death, a cold lover waiting in the shadows.

Alone, she walked beneath a godless sky,
her prayers unanswered, her faith a shattered relic.
The dreams she had nurtured were slain,
their blood staining the soil of her heart.
Yet in the quiet ruins of her despair,
she found a strange and hollow strength.
The stones of her sorrow became a foundation,
and from the ashes of her ruin,
she began to rise,
unbroken, unafraid,
a whisper of light in the endless dark.

Bipolar, they called it,
the tide within me,
Rising, falling,
a moonlit frenzy.
You, with your papers and promises made,
Couldn’t meet the storm;
your respect decayed,
And I, adrift,
watched the world betray me.

The pounding of a Heart—again—
A Drum within my Chest—
The Marble Altar—Silver-grained—
Receives its solemn Guest—

Immobile lies the trembling Flesh—
A Vessel, wide with Sight—
To witness Hands, so veteran—
Divide the Day from Night—

He splits me, like the Autumn Husk—
To harvest what’s within—
The Fetus, plucked, a fragile Pearl—
Exposed to Birth—and Sin—

He swings the Babe, a pendulum—
Its Breath—a mournful Knell—
The Audience, a silent Choir—
Their gaze—a Private Hell—

No Cry escapes the aching Lips—
No Tear the Cheek shall know—
But Loss ignites—a burning Vein—
To set the Soul aglow—

We play as Gods, upon the Stage—
While Ghosts beyond the Frame—
Collapse in Hunger’s fragile Shell—
And whisper but a Name—

The Comedy and Tragedy—
In Sinless Whites, combined—
A Truth so sharp—it cuts the Cord—
That tethers Life to Mind—

I learned my body in the cold forge of silence,
where love was a weapon, and the wound was mine to carry.
You taught me how to hold my breath
while your absence pressed itself into my bones—
a relentless tattoo,
a map of what I would never become.

Your voice was a fist—
your quiet, a sharper blade.
Every word was a verdict,
every glance, a guillotine,
and I learned to die in pieces,
small enough to fit inside your shadow.

At night, I swallowed your name like glass,
shards lining my throat,
cutting open all the lies I could not afford to believe.
I ran until my feet forgot the ground,
until the screams in my chest became a rhythm,
a hymn to the emptiness you left behind.

Who am I, but the daughter of droughts?
The child of cracked earth and barren prayers?
You taught me hunger—
the kind that devours its own mouth.
You taught me thirst—
an unending ache,
parched for a tenderness that never came.

But I am not your ruin.
Not your silence.
Not the bruise of your forgetting.
These hands, scarred and blistered,
are mine—
their strength shaped in the absence of your love.

You will not rise in me,
you will not bloom.
I carry your name like a wound I refuse to close,
like a truth too sharp to heal.
But still, I stand.
Still, I breathe.

I am the fire you could not extinguish,
the flood you could not drown.
I am the hunger that consumes its own shadow,
the storm that grows louder in the stillness.
No chains, no roots, no shame—
just the echo of my own voice,
a voice you tried to bury
but could not silence.

No mother, no tether, no guilt—
only this scar shaped like freedom,
and I wear it like armor.

Do you seek my truth?
words may cut like Winter's wind,
bare, but never false.

Today, I wore black
to mourn the dead futures
or celebrate the absence of light,
to feel the bones beneath my skin—
a silhouette slicing the fat air.

Thin and elegant,
the mirror mutters noir hymns,
a fragmented gospel of stitched shadows,
and the fabric whispers secrets of lost time—
they always whisper,
the dead and the seams alike.

Was it mourning or celebration?
Does it matter? The streets
don’t ask,
don’t care if you’re a ghost or a goddess
sliding through the cracks
between neon prayers and asphalt elegies.

Black is a portal,
a torn page from a forgotten hymnbook.
Elegance folds into nothingness,
thinned to abstraction—
a threadbare truth unraveling
in the night’s relentless choreography.

Today, I wore black.
Maybe it wore me.