Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.

The rope slumps—an unstrung throat.
Pills rattle like broken teeth.

The mirror unmouths my name,
gulps me in glass, spits static.

Outside, the city chews its own tongue.
Streetlights pulse like exposed nerves.

I step forward.

Or maybe I don’t.

The night swallows.

Nothing shifts.

The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound.

I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize.

Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion.

Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark—
or was I never here at all?

A pulse that never reached the air,
where the ground cracks open,
but no weight falls through.

A flicker burns,
but the flame never touches the wick.

Time folds over itself
a thread pulled thin,
but not unraveled.

A voice is lost
before it’s born,
and nothing moves to fill the gap.

There are rooms I do not enter, doors I welded shut with bone and sinew, memories pressed between the walls like dried insects, fragile, rotting, never quite dead.

The past does not sleep.

It moves beneath my skin, a rhythm of hands that never let go, voices that coil around my throat, laughter that sounds like breaking glass.

I walk through mirrors and find someone else staring back, eyes that don't belong to me, a mouth that speaks in riddles, a face I've tried to carve away.

But the past grows back like ivy, crawling, strangling, consuming.

There were nights that never ended, silent wars fought in locked rooms, secrets swallowed like shards of ice, cold, cutting, sinking deep.

I have learned to live as a whisper, to step lightly through the wreckage, to fold myself into the smallest spaces, as if disappearing could make me safe.

But echoes do not die. They linger, they gnaw, they fester. And in the quiet, when the world goes still, they find their way back home.

The strings quiver-a broken body in silk,
nails pressed to wood
like bruises that refuse to fade.

A melody bleeds,
sharp notes rip through skin,
veins unravel in cold ink.

Drums crack time open,
tremor down too slow
to outrun the black.
Shadows gather,
drowning the air.

A voice rises-strangled, fractured,
singing what lungs can’t reach.
Each chord a blade,
carving its name into bone.

And when it ends,
silence screams louder
than the song that tore me apart.

It began with a crack in the fabric of thought,
A wound where the echoes of yesterday rot.

The wind still lingers in corridors bare,
Sifting through ruins that once held a prayer.

The walls have swallowed the voices they knew,
Their whispers now drowned in the dust they outgrew.

A name once carved in the spine of the trees
Now crumbles like ash in the grip of the breeze.

The door stands ajar, but the threshold is blind,
No footsteps return to the halls left behind.

The moonlight weeps where the laughter once lay,
Its silver now tarnished in folds of decay.

The river once carried reflections of light,
Now drinks only shadows that drown in the night.

The mirrors are hollow, their faces erased,
No eyes left to hold what the past once embraced.

The books lie open, but silence has bled
Through pages where voices of ghosts should have read.

The scent of old letters still clings to the air,
Yet their ink has unraveled like time unaware.

The clocks have surrendered; their hands twist and pale,
Choking on hours that splinter and fail.

And still, the void adorns itself with stars,
Cold embers drifting through time’s rusted scars.

But the crack in my thought now threads through my chest,
A hollow where memory sinks into rest.

O dream of dust, unmake me, erase,
Let nothing remain—not shadow, not trace.

Yellow bleeds into empty space,
Fingers trace what’s forgotten—
Light bends, but doesn’t reach,
No warmth, no trace.

The wind erases what it touches,
Thoughts drift, lost in air.
Inside, a silence stretches,
Where words once lived.

A river fades,
But whispers crash—
Water turns to dust,
Silent in my chest.

A name, a face—
They slip like smoke,
Dissolving into nothing
I cannot grasp.

Your name seeps through the dusk,
a tremor coiled in the marrow of stars.
The wind unravels your touch—tender, but smoldering,
like an ember defying ash.

Distance etches its weight in sinew,
but even in this severance,
I taste the brine of your voice—a phantom tide,
summoning me home.

Time drags its rusted teeth through the hours, carving paths I cannot follow.

Four years of severed threads, of reaching through fractures

where hands do not meet, where silence swallows what should have been.

You were small when I last held you, a weight I could carry, a warmth that fit inside my ribs.

Now you rise beyond the edges of my sight, a fire flickering in a room I cannot enter, a voice carried by winds that never return.

The world is made of locks, of distances built like cathedrals to the absent.

I have screamed at stone, at glass, at paper, at laws that wear no faces, at names that do not bleed.

I have torn at the seams of waiting, but limbo does not break"

it only watches.

Still, I dream in hunger, in fractures of light.

A moment where your name is more than a ghost in my mouth, where your laughter does not stretch through wires, through time, through static.

One day, I will stand beside you, not as a flicker, not as a whisper, but as something real, something whole.

Until then, I build futures in the dark, lay bricks in rooms I have never seen, sculpt a life that may never know me.

No force can break what is already broken.
No distance can erase what is already fading.

Ignore the fibers,
scorched to ash—
the fractured sky bleeds silent light,
where names dissolve like lost prayers,
and time is a body unbroken, yet hollow.

But under the ruins,
the same pulse reverberates—
a seed splits open,
drenched in the same rain,
thirsting for a soil never touched.

We are the void’s breath,
woven in the skin of stars,
lost in the endless touch
of the same hands
that never let go.

I have no name. No home. No past. Only the taste of vanished cities on my tongue, only the echo of voices that once knew me, now swallowed by time.

I walk like ruin, like something history has already buried. The wind does not carry me home. The earth does not know my weight. Even the stars "those cold, distant witnesses have turned their backs.

I have begged the night to remember me, whispered my name into the mouths of rivers, pressed my hands to the dirt like a prayer. But the world does not answer. The world does not care.

I am exile. I am absence. I am the silence after the storm, the footprints already fading, the shadow of a man no one waits for.

If I disappear tonight, let the wind scatter my bones like forgotten songs, let the rain wash my name into the sea, where even the lost become less than a memory, less than dust, less than a dream no one dared to keep.

A flame whispers, its voice too soft to scorch but powerful enough to alter the air.Beneath, the earth stirs, roots curling like the breath of the forsaken.
Every step leaves a mark, fading before it brands.
We bear silence's weight, hidden beneath skin-shadows that refuse to yield, flickering in light.

Arrived as a shadow,
a breath in waiting rooms,
voices flickering like moths.

No gods stitched footprints,
prayers dissolved like ink in rain.

Paper thickened,
names erased.

Then, a hand—
a lantern through the dusk.

Pulled from refusal,
names spoken,
ribs stitched with letters.

No temple, no prophecy—
just a voice breaking machinery,
until gears cracked beneath it.

In the hum of verdicts,
a voice that did not break.

Nights unspool, threadbare and unspoken,
folding inward like paper never meant to be read.
Air thickens in the absence of weight,
a vacant gravity pressing against nothing.

I have stood inside mirrors that did not hold my shape,
watched glass ripple as if swallowing an afterthought.
Footsteps dissolve before touching the ground,
syllables decay before finding a mouth.
Sound moves, but not toward me.
Light bends, but does not stay.

They have names for the things I am not.
Soft words, dulled edges,
a kindness wrapped in misunderstanding.
But I have walked long enough to know
the difference between being unseen
and being erased.

Laughter hums in frequencies my bones do not carry,
a hymn for voices unfractured,
for hands that do not slip through their own grasp.
I have traced its outline, memorized its resonance,
a song played beyond a locked door.

Happiness is a language spoken in another room,
a warmth that does not cross thresholds,
a breath I have never drawn.
It moves past me like mist"
seen, felt, gone.

I have worn every shape, every silence,
have bent myself into something easier to hold.
But some voids do not hunger for filling,
some absences are not waiting to be undone.

If I reached for help, the air would take my hand.
If I vanished, the dust would not stir.
If I was meant to be more than a flicker,
the world must have long since turned the page.

Waking, or not.
Walls fold inward, thin-breathing.
Something hums behind what isn’t there.

Steps press into steps,
press into steps, press—
A door flickers. A mirror drowns.
A bed forgets its shape.

Somewhere, a hand reaching, unmade.
Somewhere, a voice, air-thin, unvoicing.
Drink, it says.
But the cup is hunger, the milk is grit,
and my mouth is borrowed.

Leaving, or not.
The door unshuts, the light unwrites,
and I am—

The gears gnaw through hollow bone,
Flesh burned to cinders, breath erased.
The sun is buried, mute, alone,
A corpse that stares from steel and waste.

The rivers choke in copper veins,
Their pulse confined to ghostly code.
The wind is crushed beneath the chains,
Its howls reduced to static, slow.

The past, a shattered thing, decays,
Its truth an echo in the ash.
An old man’s breath is smeared, erased,
His life dissolved in flickering flash.

And still, they sleep, with vacant eyes,
The mass unmarked by fire or stone.
The hour’s toll, a muted cry,
The final breath, a hollow drone.

The sky is a tendon, frayed thin by teeth
you never saw but always felt.
Clouds bruise where the wind forgets its name,
dripping vowels that splinter on the street below.

The alleyway chews its own shadow,
spitting out footprints that lead nowhere.
A door unhinges itself—not open, not closed,
just the absence of both.

Inside, time has folded wrong.
Walls lean toward you like hungry things,
their plaster tongues lapping at the scent
of something almost human.

A glass of water tilts without falling.
The soup tastes like forgotten alphabets,
syllables curling at the edges of your tongue
before slithering down your throat in reverse.

A figure exhales, but the breath does not leave—
it coils, thick and iridescent,
a thing with too many wings,
each one stitched from the whispers of lost hours.

The candle does not flicker; it dreams.
The spoon hums, knowing more than you.
Your reflection turns its back,
steps out of the mirror, and leaves you there.

Outside, the street swallows its own silence.
Something in the distance—
a clock? a voice? the shudder of the earth?
No. Just the sound of something watching,
waiting, wearing your skin.

They fed you ghosts, called it breakfast.
You swallowed bone-dust with your milk,
it settled deep in your ribs—
grinding, grinding, grinding. Yet they said: grow.

Outside, the trees towered,
but inside, the walls learned your name.
Soft hands became knives,
small mouths learned silence.

The mirrors cracked,
but nobody asked why.
Lullabies were hunger songs,
bedtime stories always ending with:
Run, little rabbit. Run.

I drink the night where your voice once bloomed—
the bitter sweetness of it,
like blood and honey on the tongue.

The wind moves through me,
soft as the ghost of your touch,
hard as the emptiness where you left nothing but air.

I press my ribs together,
as if love were something I could swallow whole,
as if your silence were not the body I wear now.

The stars etch your name into the dark,
but they have never tasted you.
I whisper back,
but the silence knows me better.

A splintered moon shatters in my eye,
its fragments sinking into the marrow.
Beneath, the earth cracks open,
teeth gnawing at roots that had no names.

My breath is smoke,
dissolving in a throat too old to speak.
Flesh crumbles like ash,
a flame that failed to burn.

A voice calls from the dark,
but it is dust before it reaches me.
I am left—a map of wounds no one can read.

In stillness, I inscribe your void,
A pulse drowned in distance.
You burn, distant,
A wound I wear to breathe.

Love— a murmur lost to glass,
A thirst in the marrow of nothing.

Let me drink the light your eyes have touched,
A glimpse to still the tremor in my veins.

I loved like an open wound left to rot,
bled myself empty,
but they drank and still called me nothing.
I reached out with trembling hands,
and they recoiled like I was filth.

I learned how to stay quiet,
how to shrink until I disappeared.
I watched them talk around me,
laugh past me,
exist as if I were never there.

I screamed into the hollow night,
my voice snapped in half,
but the world kept turning,
unbothered, untouched.

I tore myself open so they could see,
peeled my skin back,
let my ribs crack like dry branches.
They glanced inside,
saw the ruin,
and walked away.

I have become weightless,
a breath no one notices,
a ghost that never had a home.
A name that tastes like dust,
a memory no one ever made.

If I vanished tonight,
the world wouldn’t flinch.
The sky wouldn’t darken.
No hands would reach for me.
No eyes would search the empty streets.

And in the morning,
someone else would take my place.
And I would be nothing.
Nothing...

I fed you my ribs.
You crossed without looking.

My voice curdled to salt.
You spat. I rotted.

I placed my pulse in your palm.
The veins unraveled.

Now, I dissolve in your breath—
a ghost too thin to haunt.