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.

Rose haze fractures,
a world refracted,
devils' spawn pacing the void—
no sleep, no dreams, just static.

Confessions carved on smoke trails,
the crackle-pop rhythm of lies,
a wasp nest humming
its venom song in the night.

Cigarette burns like stigmata,
photographs of shattered veins,
hearts breaking with the soft cadence
of storms past—
gentle, relentless violence.

Vultures spiral in a cruel ballet,
tension stretching taut
until the mind snaps,
a razor's edge
dancing with psychosis.

She barred the doors,
left the world screaming outside,
while hungover dawns and hollow eyes
etched her truth
on walls no one would ever see.

Samson strength,
cut cords,
no contact—
a prayer for peace,
a fortress against the whispering dark.

Tattooed tears,
a killer in slow motion,
tripping through shadows
that refuse to die.

No trust, no kin,
just the slow exhale of light—
ghosts humming in thunder's arms,
his hand reaching
through the veil of the afterlife
to pull her back from oblivion.

But who saves the savior
when the wasps return?

Red poppies bow low,

heads bending in whispered pact,

soldiers in still ranks,

bleeding upon the soft earth,

awaiting the wind’s command—

battlefields of fleeting bloom.