i see the  
   shadows  
   dancing—  
    a kaleidoscope of  
  memories (whispers  
   of laughter and  
   tears)  
   flickering like  
   dying stars  

death, with a  
   smile,  
   (hades’ embrace)  
   wraps her in  
   velvet darkness  
   where time  
   bends and  
   breaks  

photographs  
   strewn like fallen  
   petals,  
   each moment  
   a ghost that  
   clings (to  
   the edges of  
   her fading light)  

overdose—  
   a tempest in  
   her veins;  
   the world  
   dissolves,  
   (a soft sigh)  
   she slips  
   into the  
   arms of night  

and i,  
   a witness,  
   hold my breath,  
   caught in the  
   web of  
   her  
   leaving.

She rubbed her hands and shook her head,
In the dim-lit room where shadows bled.
The weight of the past, a burdened tune,
Settled like mist beneath the moon.

She knew her power, a tempest near,
Yet bore it cloaked in trembling fear.
A shotgun resting in her palm,
A gentle grip, a vengeful calm.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, her voice a flame,
“I found the love you never could name.
Little gifts in the morning and soft embrace,
No lies hidden in a polished face.”

No masks, no smiles of hollow hues,
For her heart lived honest, pure, and true.
She bore the scars of a past unkind,
But they made her whole, they steeled her mind.

He, who once loomed, a shadow of dread,
Now but a ghost in a story long fled.
Behind closed doors, his venom had crept,
Yet now she ruled where his malice slept.

No longer shamed, no longer small,
She stood as a queen, above it all.
And should he return, his gaze would stray,
For the woman he knew had melted away.

With steady breath, she faced the night,
A sovereign soul, her heart alight.
For those who endure the darkest storm,
Rise anew, their power reborn.

three days running
(body’s unraveling
the threads of itself
loose stitches yawning wide—)
but my mind
(my manic, my impossible mind)
spins
and spins
and
spins

the ceiling
a vast white ocean
of thoughts unswallowed
while gravity forgets me,
floating on this frantic tide of
(silence?) no,
the hum of all the hours
I should have slept.

oh how cruelly awake,
how absurdly alive,
to feel this lightbulb brain
(scorched, buzzing)
while my knees buckle under the weight
of their own existence.

there will be collapse.
(there will always be collapse.)
but for now,
this manic orchestra
plays on,
its violins tuned to the scream
of a body desperate for dark,
its brass blaring a melody
only the sleepless can hear.

She swam deep, seeking the golden key of consciousness,
past bubbles of fear that clung,
reaching desperately for the surface.
The past, a gaggle of mistakes,
echoed through her mind like laughter—
his laughter, sharp against her innocence.

He left her a gift:
not love, but poison coursing her veins,
bad habits and weaknesses,
an inheritance of struggle,
writhing from the aftershock of his drugs.

She searches her archive of memories,
each morning darker,
a perverse symphony of snakes feeding
on her dwindling strength.
Yet still, she listens—
without judgment, though they doubt her why.

The world burns like vinyl,
time stretching in discordant grooves,
a roadtrip of betrayal.
Every mile wasted, every dollar spilled,
a confession bleeding into nothing.
Trouble lingers behind,
but she dares not look back.

She dreams in taxis,
crimson leaves falling at dusk,
paranoia cradling her like a restless child.
He never knew she existed.
No one wanted her.

Yet, in the cracks of her being,
a lucky charm gleams,
a distraction from the silence.
The future parts like an answered prayer,
a criminal mystery unraveled in early hours,
his goodbye a faint echo of closure.

She wants to trust in the truth,
to defend the fragile child within her,
the one who cries with a change of mind,
the one still searching
for a tomorrow worth resurrecting.

What happened to you?—the Question hangs—
A specter on the Air—
There’s Something—gnawing at the Bones—
And Madness stirs in There—

A Sin—a Stain upon the Flesh—
No Cleansing can Repeal—
The Laughter of a Distant Hell—
Resounds—a Brazen Peal—

He struck—Repeatedly—a Thorn—
Against a Petaled Grace—
And claimed—the Fracture of her Soul—
Was not—a Man’s Disgrace—

"I feel—quite Fine"—the Monster said—
Before the Hunger came—
And ripped away—the Veil of God—
To stoke—an Ancient Flame—

She fled—a Wolf without her Cloak—
To Secrets—of the Trees—
While Echoes of his Jagged Cry—
Rose on the Timid Breeze—

No Answers—Waited on the Hill—
No Truth beneath the Stone—
But Evidence—of what Was Done—
Is Etched—in Flesh and Bone.

sometimes,
I think,
that maybe,
perhaps,
I should be wrapped in bubble wrap,
a makeshift armor
for the jagged world.

because I am fragile—
like aged porcelain dolls,
cracked eyes
tainted lips,
staring blankly at truths
they'll never tell.

we sat in circles,
confessing sins
or inventing them,
clinging to the lie of purpose.
she breathed in the dust,
the light of the cheap bulb,
while the burning liquor
erased us,
dare by dare.

alive until morning—
skin against skin,
clothes torn away,
as if the nakedness
could make us real.

but there was no beauty,
just the sound of breaths,
and the pooling remains
of something
we once thought...but no longer
was love.

You took my pulse,
Unraveled it, thread by thread,
Until the spool of my years
Sat empty in your hand.
Your lies came like tides,
Swollen with the moon’s silver pull,
Rushing in, foaming and gnashing,
To drown the fragile towers
I carved from sand.

I hate you—
The way I hate sharp things
That beckon with promise of release,
The way I hate mirrors,
Winking their cruel truths at dawn.
If I could wield my loathing
Like a blade,
I’d etch your betrayal into your skin.

But still, it is me who bleeds,
Me who swallows the salt
Of your restless seas.
You, the storm, the tide,
The cruel rhythm
That broke the best years of my life
Against your jagged rocks.

Now, the castles we dreamed
Crumble in the clouds,
Their ghostly spires spiraling upward—
Untouchable, unreachable.
And I, a husk,
Stand knee-deep in the wreckage,
Knowing that even the moon
Mocks my rage,
Unchanged by the chaos
You left behind.

He stirs the dawn with the hum of the kettle,
Steam rising like ghostly whispers,
A quiet ritual of devotion—
The spoon clinks, the cup warms my hands,
His unspoken vows brewed dark and sweet.

Fingers weave through the chaos of my fevered hair,
A tenderness that binds more than braids,
Each twist a thread of solace,
A promise wound tightly,
As if to tether me to something steady.

His jacket, draped over my shivering bones,
Hangs heavy with his scent, his warmth,
A shield against the indifferent wind.
He never asks if I need it—
He simply knows.

Safety is not the fortress but the watchman,
The way his shadow falls across my fears,
How he sees what I cannot say
And says nothing,
Only lingers long enough to make the dark retreat.

These are the quiet revolutions of love,
Not grand, not loud,
But steady as the tide,
Small acts that hold me upright,
That stitch me whole.

Seeking shelter from the whispers’ breath,
The cross digs deep, her burdened path.
Her shoulders bow to grief untold,
Impregnated by hope grown cold.

Enemies masked in waltzing guise,
Spin circles beneath deceiving skies.
She bows graciously to his eminence tall,
A shadow looms, a silent call.

"Where are you from?" they question her so,
"From nowhere," she answers, a truth of woe.
"A ******* child, unwanted, unseen,
An echo of sorrow where life had been."

Candlelight flickers, betraying her years,
Its glow etching lines, language of tears.
Thoughts breach barriers, a storm in flight,
Black stallions pound through the veils of night.

He liked to play tricks, her torment, her plea,
A curse spun in pity, her shadow’s decree.
The ghost of him lingers, a sparrow’s ascent,
Her innocence pure, but her spirit bent.

Fading to madness, a lover’s embrace,
Embroidery patterns the fabric of grace.
The past weaves its threads, each stitch a scar,
A wraith’s pale flay in a world ajar.

No taste of codeine, no balm for the strife,
Defensive in virtue, her battle is life.
Through madness, through whispers, through sorrow’s long flight,
She vanishes softly into shadowed light.

The body learns to lie before the mouth does.
She moves like seaweed caught in a current,
the siren song of her hips pulling others closer—
a collision, a shatter.
Hormones bloom like coral,
bright and false,
a reef of dopamine
where nothing survives for long.

Reality is a cruel lover;
its hands too heavy,
its voice too loud.
She asks herself,
do you still wait for love?
do you still have patience for the breaking?

When she confronts him,
his grin splits his face like a wound,
a predator's smile,
the sound of firecrackers between them,
smoke where the truth should be.
He speaks of a *******,
of giving his power away,
of someone else making his choices.
She cannot decide if this is freedom
or just another kind of cage.

She remembers herself,
the way tequila burned her throat,
the way she burned brighter,
a girl in red,
posed naked under the gaze of men
who painted her as both light and shadow.
She trusted their hands before they betrayed her.
Before she turned cold.
Before she fell silent.
Before she hid her fire.

Now, she is the ocean’s daughter,
sinking deeper,
listening to the song of water
as it whispers secrets only the drowned can hear.
She wonders:
Do the waves ever grow tired of crashing?
Does the salt remember being a tear?

She lets herself drift,
thinking maybe, just maybe,
the pressure of the deep
is a softer weight
than the heaviness of love.

I didn’t mean to let them go—
those words, quick and sharp
as shattered glass. They fell
between us, brittle echoes
splitting the air. I heard them
before they landed,
felt their weight twist my tongue,
knew they’d cut through
what we hadn’t yet finished weaving.

And still, you stood.
Not a wall, but a tree
rooted in wind.
Your breath was slow, deliberate,
a tide that didn’t rise
to meet the storm of me.
Your eyes held me—
not as something to punish
or praise,
but as something still learning
to soften.

Behind you,
your daughter sat silent,
her small frame
pressed into the edges of a room
too big for her understanding.
Not mine, but yours—
her love carried in the tilt of her gaze,
her trust braided into
the rhythm of your voice.
She doesn’t yet know
that words can be knives,
can bloom into scars
years later,
but she knows the way
your hands move—
slow, careful,
as if nothing in this world
is worth breaking.

I watch her watching you,
her young face
a map of wonder and inheritance.
And I wonder if she’ll see
how your quiet
isn’t silence,
but a language of its own—
the kind that teaches without telling,
the kind that steadies
without asking for praise.

Even now,
when I am the storm
tearing through our stillness,
you meet me
not with fire, not with force,
but with the weightlessness of water.
You press truth
into the hollow of my palms,
into the chaos of my mind:

We are not the words
we wish we could unsay.
We are not the wounds
we carry like heirlooms.
We are the spaces between the noise,
the quiet that stays
after the breaking.

I don’t know how to thank you—
not for your strength,
but for your refusal
to make it into armor.
For the way you hold love steady,
a flame too patient to flicker,
even when the wind rises.

Generations listened, holding back tears,
as if the weight of history whispered
in the cadence of silence.
She pretended to sleep,
watching his prayers fracture the air,
each syllable a plea for forgiveness,
each word a lie she had already memorized.

He broke her innocence-
fumbling hands, snapping buttons,
sweat and tears mingling into something unholy.
"I will never leave you, my angel," he murmured,
as fingers pressed deeper into her,
a trespass she could not resist nor refuse.

Revulsion swallowed her whole,
his touch a poison, his presence a stain,
his words a scripture written in filth.
She will tell no one,
her secrets folding inwards like a flower
too afraid to bloom.
No fight, no flight, only silence,
an ache where her voice should be.

She escaped by becoming light,
a wisp of air, translucent and untouchable,
impure as a pearl rolled in dirt and time.
When he forced her open,
her mouth like a chirping chick
devouring his ****, a sin she could not cleanse,
she knew- h could not buy her,
not with fear, not with authority,
not with the brown ****** he dragged
like the ghost of his shame.
He was nothing-
a sad old man with a criminal record,
a shadow of power that dissolved
when touched by her refusal.
And so, she remained:
light, air, silence,
the dirt pressed against her skin
washed away with the years.

She sees herself slipping sideways, crawling out of frame—a fractured shadow laughing bitterly at the void. Split into two, three, a dozen hungry ghosts armed to the teeth, blades humming, flashing like neon sickness under a rotting sun. A chemical tang on the tongue—morphine dreams, sharp as razors, as bitter as the lies she whispers to herself, again and again and again. Agreement? No chance. Agreement's a dead language.

The streets are jagged veins, carved by desperate hours and desperate hands. The past crashes through like a ****** in withdrawal, clawing at her skin, digging for some fragile vein of meaning. The chosen ones scatter like cigarette ash into the unbreathable air. Truth burns. Doubt screams. Nobody wins this game.

She’s disgraced, sure, but truth is her leash. She’s got the numbers—counts the dead, calculates the weight of significance in a world slipping off its axis. Oracle burned to ash by her own prophecy, she's got secrets to sell. Whispers futures into the ears of corpses. Hands groping through the static for some code, some cipher. Eyes wide, empty. Blind.

The labyrinth pulls her deeper, silken threads unraveling into something monstrous, writhing roots, tangles of anxiety choking the air. Confess! she commands, spitting venom. Purity’s a joke told by the ******, a punchline you find only when the blade's in your hand. But she’s reaching anyway, clawing at enlightenment like it owes her something, like despair’s got an answer hiding in the filth. Flowers bloom red in the cracks, ecstasy spilling like blood, too much, too fast, choking.

Blood pools where the flow stops. Stagnant. She swallows herself, folds into nothing. The mirror devours her whole, spitting back echoes, endless recursion, hysteria blooming in the cracks. Scream trapped, caught, reflected infinitely. A Möbius strip of despair, looping forever, cutting deep, deeper still.

No exit. Just mirrors. Just screams.

Mother sighed in a cradle of haze,
stitched my name in smoke, in a fugue of days.
Born to the rhythm of a wheel's refrain—
just the road, just the road, just the hollow refrain.

Father sang to the glass with his weathered hands,
a hymn to forgetting, a preacher’s last stand.
The spaces he left were louder than words,
just the ghost of him, just the absence heard.

There’s a cigarette choir in the shadow’s fist,
amber prayers that fade in a whispered twist.
The whiskey’s a prophet with a venomous tongue,
and I am his echo—forever unsung.

Love was a thief with a mercenary smile,
she held my heart like a stone on trial.
She kissed me once, then left me bare,
now I breathe in the silence, just the air, just the air.

Mother, you carved me a crown of lead,
a burden unseen, a song unsaid.
I roll through the veils of a world undone,
searching for stillness beneath the sun.

The stars, they flicker like bruises in bloom,
each one a wound, each one a room.
I sing to myself—I am the sky's refrain,
rolling alone through the ache, through the flame.

I am the meek one, soft as milk,
The lamb in the dew’s first breath,
Trailing petals in a path to slaughter,
Eyes wide, heart blooming with trust.
The air whispers its secrets:
"Be still, be still,
Your blood will nourish the roots."

But beneath the quiet mask,
The dormant beast waits, claws coiled.
Her breath rattles in the dark of my lungs,
Her eyes gleam in mirrors I dare not meet.
She sharpens her teeth on the bones of silence,
A warrior clothed in shadow,
Bound to the pulse of her restless blade.

I walk the tightrope stretched between us,
Each step a hymn to fragile peace.
But the scales groan, the weight shifts—
Balance is a fickle mistress.
The lamb whispers, "Mercy,"
The beast roars, "War."
Their voices weave through my veins,
Twin rivers threatening to flood.

The line beckons, a seam stitched with fire,
Daring me to cross, daring me to break.
The lamb trembles at the precipice,
The warrior takes her hand.
It is not choice but inevitability—
A tide surging through the marrow of my bones.

I am both the hunter and the hunted,
The blade and the throat it kisses.
Change is a storm I cannot deny;
War is a dance I must learn to master.
The lamb bleeds, the beast awakens.
There is no balance, only fusion,
Only the becoming of something whole.

touching down
on a field of golden ripe wheat stalks,
she—mother, sister, lover,
car crash.
she cut the ties clean,
drove off, left the old parade
of dead faces and long stares.
her mother, her father,
those barrel mouths
spitting bullets made of
you’ll never be enough.

the roots?
they never reached deep.
shallow soil,
rocks full of their anger,
their ultimatums killed their child
before the first breath.
all she had left
was what is happening?
over and over
until it became
a silent chant
in her dry mouth.

doubt grew in her
like weeds in cracked pavement,
pushing through the silence,
splitting her skin open—
but no one noticed.
no one cared.

now,
she’s gone from them,
driving with the headlights off
into the deep black of
what’s next.
they don’t even know it,
but she buried them
back in that wheat field.
their words,
their bullets,
their roots—
all rotting in the dirt.

during my cigarette break
i met a perfect stranger
(his hands smelled of bleach,
mine manicured and adorned)
he a cleaner
i a teacher's assistant

we spilled words like loose coins,
quickly, easily
about pasts
that refused to stay buried.
how mental illness
gnawed quietly at the edges
of our days,
how Christmas was
a fistful of broken promises,
how parents became
ghosts of voices
we no longer called.

we confessed
to the solitude of crying
when the walls were thick enough
to keep secrets,
and i saw in his eyes
something frighteningly familiar—
the weight
of almost,
of never quite enough.

him a cleaner,
i a teacher's assistant,
yet between us,
no distance,
only the soft unraveling of
what it means to be human.

I shook his hand
with utmost respect,
the kind reserved for warriors
who fight wars no one sees,
and I asked for his name—
(it hung in the air
like a fragile bird).

he told me softly,
as if ashamed of his own syllables,
as if names could erase
the years of invisible labor
or the silent rooms
he scrubbed clean of other people’s messes.

and in that moment,
he was no stranger,
no cleaner, no shadow—
just a man
whose story brushed against mine,
soft as shared breath,
sharp as shared pain.

when I walked away,
the smoke of my cigarette
curled into his absence,
and I wondered
how many lives
we pass without touching,
how many names
we never think to ask.

The walls breathe in static—
a hum, a crackle, a whisper of wires
pulling tight around my throat.
Every sound a gunshot.
Every shadow a knife.
The milk spills,
a galaxy spreading across the floor,
an apocalypse in white.

Outside, the neon world churns,
spitting teeth, shrapnel dreams.
Everything slick, wet, sharp.
The streets groan,
their intestines spilling out
in the form of cracked asphalt and broken glass.
I can’t leave;
I won’t.

Inside, the air thickens,
a syrup of dread.
Home is a box,
four corners dripping in soft rot.
I sleep under the table
because the bed is too open,
the ceiling too close.

An old television flickers in the corner—
faces in grayscale,
lips moving with no sound.
I try to pull their words apart,
but they squirm like worms.

Every second fractures,
splitting into shards.
Each shard digs in deep—
a hiccup, a phone ringing,
a window slammed shut
by the hands of ghosts.

I try to glue myself together
with the thought of silence.
But silence is a gun too,
a loaded chamber waiting to click.

The wolves circle out there—
dressed as mailmen, as friends,
as my own reflection.
I clutch the blanket,
a shroud, a shield,
a joke.

Safe.
Safe?
Safety is a story they sell in pills,
in pamphlets, in soft voices
that drip honey and venom.
But the wolves are here.
The wolves are me.
The wolves are you.

The gun between us breathes,
a cold, metallic beast,
its weight heavy as grief,
a stranger we invited to dinner.
Your hand in mine—soft skin,
worn thin by apologies
neither of us has learned to believe.

Dusk seeps through the windows,
its light a bruise on the walls.
Shadows creep across your face,
your mouth opens—
a spilling, a flood of truths
that clatter like empty brass shells
on the wooden floor between us.

The gun hums its silence,
its voice louder than ours.
My fingers twitch but hold,
a grasp, a bond, a tether
to your trembling pulse.
Each confession lands—
a ricochet of blame,
love turned sharp-edged and unkind.

Outside, the world tilts,
a sky swollen with clouds
ready to burst. Inside,
the air thickens with secrets,
your eyes locked on mine,
begging for a forgiveness
that feels like treason.

The weight between us—
not just steel but history,
each wound, each lie,
each time we chose silence
over the truth that now bleeds
from our mouths,
red as dusk,
as irrevocable as the night
falling around us.

Mascara smeared,
a black flag raised in surrender,
bare feet pressing into Earth—
pregnant weight pulls her down,
and the doors—
they don’t swing,
don’t creak,
just stay shut like the mouths of saints.

She was supposed to be invisible,
but the mirror laughed,
its reflection catching the outline of her face,
the philosophy of being—
full of answers no one asks for,
full of consequence.

She saw them—
red-handed in their stolen kiss,
the air thick with the scent of betrayal,
a forbidden sacrament.
She wept,
not for the kiss,
not for the woman,
but for the rip,
the spill of her life
on a floor too clean
to keep her.

He stumbles in guilt,
tripping over mistakes like loose wires.
His hands full of her tears,
his mouth heavy with excuses—
a cheater,
a coward,
a man drowning in his own reflection.

And she,
pregnant with something heavier than grief,
lets the Earth hold her steady,
lets the mascara stain her cheeks
like war paint,
lets the world fold itself around her silence—
because the doors might not open,
but her hands,
her feet,
her eyes—
they will.

you (lit) a fire
inside my bones – soft (slow)
hands taught flame to breathe (to
grow) until
you ****** it dead

There was a time I carried hurt
like a second skin—
every crack and scar a story I told myself,
a story I swore was true.

I cradled that pain like a child,
fed it, sang to it, let it grow inside me,
until its roots tangled with my ribs,
its leaves whispered in my lungs.
It became so familiar,
I forgot what it was like
to breathe without its weight.

But healing is a quiet rebellion.
It does not storm in;
it tiptoes like a sunrise,
peeling back the dark
layer by tender layer.

One day, I stopped asking why
and started asking how.
How do I unspool this thread of hurt?
How do I make space for the truth?
Not the truth I told myself to survive,
but the truth that sets me free.

It turns out, healing isn't forgetting.
It isn’t pressing rewind
or pretending the hurt was never there.
It’s holding it up to the light,
examining every jagged edge,
and saying, “I see you. But you don’t own me.”

I am learning that letting go
isn’t a loss; it’s a choice.
To let the past rest
without dragging it behind me.
To forgive—not for them, but for me.
To unclench my fists and find my palms
open, ready to hold joy again.

And now, as I walk forward,
I am lighter,
like a bird that has finally noticed
the sky has always been there,
waiting,
ready to carry me home.

Crashing waves roar loud,
white foam, rabid dogs' fierce growl—
shoreline bites the sky.

Little child wanders,
wild forest whispers through the air,
Grandma stirs her ***.

Wrinkles tell her tale,
sentimental tears falling,
lonely nights persist.

Pregnant skies grow ripe,
radiant but angry clouds,
fist of thunder strikes.

drifting (torrential) dreams—
loose as vagabonds,
their gentle hum (suspicions of
burning bridges),
the pinhole of today
collapses (like breath through
a cracked window).

(government listens
to birds
kiss
satellites goodnight;
their frequency is
a whalesong—
a wind heard
only in the hollow
of you/me/us).

we (trust) like branches
struggling
toward a reflection of
not-quite-sky.

make it (code) names transcendence.
make it seconds (resonating)—
a journey (intimate,
an interrogation) of
(expectations to
accept) the sound
we sing together.

love is a wild
   whispering river
        where hearts t u m b l e
          in sweet chaos,

sacrifices linger—
   soft shadows,
      breathless echoes of
        what we give,

i am a pearl
   of kindness
      resting on your tongue,
         a promise,
         a fluttering
      in the d a r k.

nature cradles
   our wounds like
      fragile flowers,
         blooms of forgiveness
      s t r e t c h i n g toward the
            light of new beginnings,

in the womb of the universe,
   we breathe life into dreams,
      acknowledging the
         precious moments,
   sharing secrets
      whispered in the night—

and in the soft
   embrace of dying,
      we find the
         thread of healing,
   weaving yesterday
     into tomorrow—

oh, how we dance,
   the endless embrace,
      two souls
         spinning in
    the bittersweet
   rhythm of existence,

celebration in every touch,
   a symphony of heartbeats,
      where joy and sorrow
         i n t e r t w i n e,
   crafting a tapestry
      rich with love’s
   enduring grace.

Confession unfolds,
Wild child sheds lost innocence,
Time locks guilt away.

Jealous seas whisper,
Filthy mouth hides love’s regret,
Calmness fades to gray.

Pills drift through the waves,
Melancholy grips the heart—
Hope sinks with the tide.

She had that sinking feeling,
like the weight of a ghost—
pressing cold truths on her shoulders,
a whisper too loud to ignore.
Something terrible had happened.
The room tilted,
and the confession spilled
from lips cracked with silence.

I’ll give your life meaning, she said,
a promise coiled in smoke,
early morning walk of shame,
heels striking pavement,
a rhythm for the unspoken.
Life intoxicating,
a kaleidoscope of ache and anesthetic.
For a moment,
I finally feel no pain.

Forget the rumours—
her psychosis lit like a matchstick,
spreading in the wildfire of small towns
and smaller minds.
Spare me your hypocrisy;
you watered the weeds
that tangled her voice.

But he loved her still,
in the way the moon loves the sea—
pulling her closer,
knowing she’d still pull away.
Always, he said,
and his words stitched her unraveling.
Even ghosts can’t carry everything.

The room was dim, lit only by the haze of a street lamp filtering through half-drawn blinds, scattering lines like prison bars across the detritus of her life: unopened bills, cracked coffee mugs, and the perfumed ghosts of a dozen wilting roses collapsing under their own beauty. Knife to her neck—the thought slithered through her mind, unbidden, unformed, like smoke escaping a fire too distant to see. She pressed her fingers to her temple, hoping to divine meaning from the chaos of the moment, but the jigsaw of letters refused assembly, scattered as though by some cosmic gust.

Words were a storm. They rained in torrents, fragmented and incomprehensible, soaking her thoughts with omens she had no strength to interpret. The post-it notes—cheerful yellows and pinks—spoke a language of lies, each one slapped haphazardly to the walls, the fridge, the bathroom mirror: “You’re stronger than this,” “One day at a time,” “Smile, because it happened.” Their saccharine optimism grated against the grinding in her chest, the truth she could not ignore: she was falling, spinning into the gravity of some unseen event she could not stop, only anticipate.

Across town—or maybe just across the hall—he poured amber whiskey into a chipped glass, his movements sluggish, like a marionette whose strings had frayed. The top-shelf bottle mocked him; it wasn’t his whiskey, it wasn’t his glass, and yet here he was, owning it all with the hollow gravitas of a man who sold everything, including himself. The liquid swirled, catching the dim light like a memory trying to surface, but it went nowhere, dissolved into the haze of his thoughts.

The voices came next. They always did. They whispered in tones too low for words but loud enough to unsettle, to make him wonder whether the sound was inside or outside his skull. They took aim, their intent barbed and deliberate, yet the execution was silence—a silence that curled down his spine, as intimate as a lover’s breath but as cold as the shiver it left behind.

She saw it coming—whatever it was. She always did. The omen hung in the air between them, a phantom that moved between their lives, threading their disjointed existences together like a careless seamstress stitching a wound. And still, the knife stayed at her neck, its edge a promise, a prophecy, waiting for the final rose to collapse under its own weight.