the glass stood tall once.  
       smooth, untouched,    
               shaped to expectation.  

then came the fall.  
the slip,  
         the drop,  
                 the ruin.  

hands hovered over the wreckage,  
  whispers of what was,  
    what could have been,  
       what will never be again.  

    no one wanted the pieces.  
           no one knew what to do with them.  
                they stared, they sighed, they left.  

      but someone stayed.  
             or maybe no one did, maybe just the dust.  
                    just the dust, and the silence, and the weight of absence.  

gold is a lie they tell to make it bearable.  

   it does not erase the cracks.  
      it does not restore what was lost.  
         it only makes the breaking visible.

   not untouched,  
           not perfect,  
                   but standing.  

   they call it beauty,  
             but it is only survival.  
                      they call it art,  
                                 but it is only memory.  

       if light filters through the seams,  
             does it mean it is still breaking?

i have loved in silence,  
            in the spaces between glances,  
                    in the margins of conversations.  

    i have swallowed my voice,  
            pressed it down like a crumpled page,  
                    let it sit, let it burn.  

    my friends fall into love like skipping stones,  
            weightless, effortless,  
                    rippling into something soft.  

    but i am always the rock that sinks.  
            no hands reach down.  
                    no arms pull me up.  

    "they" call it unnatural.  
            "they" call it a phase.  
                    "they" call it a sin.  

    i call it loneliness.  
            i call it longing.  
                    i call it mine.  

    my heart is an empty chapel,  
            candles burnt to stubs,  
                    hymns caught in the rafters.  

    i ask god if there is love for me.  
            i ask the sky, the stars, the wind.  

    (silence.)  

    i press my forehead to the floor,  
            to the dirt, to the dust,  
                    to the quiet ache in my chest.  

    "please," i whisper.  

    (nothing.)  

    somewhere, a hand is waiting.  
            somewhere, a love exists.  
                    somewhere, i am seen.  

    but not here.  
            not yet.  
                    not now.  

    so i wait.

they come to you, arms outstretched,  
            voices cracked open like old leather.  
                    you gather their sorrows,  
                           tuck them neatly between your ribs.  

    you are the light in their storm,  
            the hands pulling them from the water,  
                    the voice that hums, "it will be okay."  

    but when the tide rises for you?  
            when your own chest caves like a hollow house?  

    silence.  
            not cruel, not malicious—  
                    just absence.  

    the weight is yours alone to carry.  
            you, the listener.  
                    you, the healer.  
                            you, the foundation that must never crack.  

    (but sometimes, even stone crumbles.)  

    when will someone pull you from the flood?  
            when will someone sit beside you and say,  
                    not in passing, not out of duty—  
                            but because they mean it—  

                                   "it will be okay."

(quiet, isn't it?)  

       the air holds its breath.  
               the walls do not move.  
                       the body is still—  
                                  at last, at last, at last.  

but time does not stop.  
        the clock hiccups,  
                        then keeps ticking.  
        the door stays locked,  
                        but the knocking doesn’t stop.  
        the phone keeps ringing,  
                        but no one picks up.  

       (were you expecting silence?)  

somewhere, the sun keeps rising.  
        somewhere, the city hums on.  
                but here—  
                           here, the world tilts,  
                                         the sky folds,  
                                                   the ground sinks beneath them.  

       a mother grips the doorknob,  
                      hand trembling like a faulty lightbulb.  
       a friend stares at the unread message,  
                      timestamped yesterday, 3:14 AM.  
       a lover traces the indent in the mattress,  
                      as if it were a wound that might still close.  

                     they always meant to check in.  
                     they always meant to call.  
                     they always meant to say—  

but meaning is a ghost,  
         and ghosts do not answer.  

       (are you listening?)  

   your name becomes an echo.  
                 a prayer, a question, a plea.  
   your room becomes an altar.  
                 untouched shirts, dust settling like snowfall.  
   your absence becomes a stain.  
                 not red. not blood. something paler, endless, unseen.  

       (is this what you wanted?)  

       the weight is gone,  
               but only for you.  
                     it latches onto their shoulders instead,  
                            vines curling, thick and unrelenting.  

   a sister walks slower.  
   a father speaks softer.  
   a friend laughs less.  

       (you left, but you did not leave alone.)  

       the world keeps turning,  
       the sun keeps rising,  
       the birds keep singing,  

       but for them, the light feels wrong,  
       the sky feels heavier,  
       and the music plays out of tune.  

       (quiet, isn't it?)  

              (but listen—someone is still crying.)

this is how you rise.
           shed the old, reshape the rest.  
                 stand straighter, speak softer —  
                      beauty is just another word for belonging.  

step into the light.  
           let the fabric drape just right.  
                      let the colors speak for you.  

      (if it glitters,  
                 does it matter  
                       if it suffocates?)  

  cut the hair.  
          swallow the accent.  
   paint the lips  
                the color of currency—  
                      polished,  
                              bloodless.  

       now you are seen.
   now you are wanted.
now you exist.

smile wider.
let the teeth gleam.
walk taller.
let the rhythm match.
speak carefully.
let the voice lose its edges.

(soften.
soften.
disappear.)

lovely, isn’t it?
      to be chosen?
           to be one of us?

isn’t it?

i smiled when spoken to.  
         nodded at the right times.  
   dressed myself in fabric  
              heavy with approval,  
       let them rewrite my name  
                    in letters i could not read.  

   was this what they meant by righteousness?

           i stepped in line,  
             shoulder to shoulder,  
                  head to the ground,  
      voice swallowed whole.  

(do not stray.  
                 do not ask.  
                          do not falter.)  

   but when i prayed,  
             i found no voice.  
    when i knelt,  
                  i found no floor.  
    when i searched,  
                i found only mirrors,  
                           only echoes,  
                                      only dust.  

   was this what they meant by devotion?

         they said,  
  we will make you whole.
           we will scrape away the excess.
                   we will leave nothing but light.

   so i let them take,  
               let them pare me down,  
                         let them erase,  
                                   let them shape.  
(smaller,  
           softer,  
                      easier.)  

   but when i looked for myself,  
             i found nothing.  
   when i called my name,  
                         there was no answer.  
   when i reached out,  
                    my hands met air.  

was this what they meant by salvation?

i wear
the cloak of expectations,
stitched from the sins of others,
woven tight like fig leaves —
covering the shame
that is
not mine.

they say,  
    be this,
          be that,
    carry the burden
                   of the world —  
              like the mount of uhud,  
                     heavy,  
                          and unyielding.  

but when i look
into the mirror,
it shatters,
like the moon split asunder,
pieces scattered
across the floor,
beyond repair.

    “just be happy,”  
                      they say,  
        “be perfect,  
                   be the image,  
                        the reflection.”  

but my soul
feels like a vessel,
empty,
lost,
waiting for the rain,
as if i am the dry earth,
thirsting for the mercy
of a single drop.

                                          i reach for the stars —
                                          but my hands
                                          can never grasp
                                          the heavens.

i look for the light,  
                  but the darkness swallows it whole,  
                  and i wonder —  
                   if i’ve stopped looking,  
              if the search  
                       was always  
                        a lie.  

     they say,  
              to be enough,
                 but the world  
                 only knows the hunger —  
                  the longing for something  
                          beyond reach.  

how many times,
must i lift my heart
like the mountain,
and yet,
still
fall short?

                            have i not been enough?
              am i not enough?
                            or was i never meant to be?

the ink of my life
is written on fragile skin,
prayers said in silence —
but no one listens anymore.

but when the world turns away,
i remain here

                                                                      lost,
                                                                 empty,
                                                        wondering —


                                                        am i enough?

they say it is
a canvas,
                          a frame,
                                       a brushstroke.
                                                                              but it is a cage.

    beauty,  
                they say,  
      is symmetry,  
                           precision,  
        lines drawn tight —  
                               perfect,  
                               as if that means anything.  

a curve here,
a shadow there,
exactly right,
exactly wrong —
                                       the rules of a game
                                       no one remembers starting.

      who made the rules?
                 who decided  
                      what belongs in the frame,  
                           what is worthy  
                       of the gaze?  

does the brush bleed?
             is the color pure?
is it still art if it spills —
                          all over,
shattering the borders?

they say
"if you can't see it,
it's not there,"
                                       but can you see the space?
                                                                 the chaos
                                                    between the lines?

art —  

you say it is  
     "a statement,"  
           "an expression,"  
           "a revolution."  
                   but only the kind that fits.

art.

we call it beautiful
             only when it
                          fits
                          in the frame,
                                       the one we've built —
                                                                 to trap it.

   so what happens
         when the frame shatters?  
                    what happens then?

molded,  
      measured,  
            carved.  

           (cut down to size.)  

    a rib for eve,  
          a waist for venus,  
                 a bust for dionysus,  
                        a jaw for adonis.  

what is a body
if not a mirror?
if not a stage?
if not a cage?

    they say,  
             make yourself small.  
     they say,  
             make yourself more.
     they say,  
             make yourself worthy.  

break bone,
burn flesh,
bind, pinch, peel, pull —
closer. tighter. smoother. thinner.
broader. harder. taller. stronger.

     (they will still call you too much.)  

a scale is an altar,
a waistline a prophecy,
a mirror a judge,
a calorie a sin,
a muscle a shrine.

   and you?  
          a lamb—  
               fattened, then starved,  
                    offered up,  
                        to the god of empty stomachs,
                        to the god of unyielding fists.

who taught you to love your body
only when it is leaving you?

    who told you hunger was holy?  
    who told you pain was power?  

who decided a man is only worth
the space he conquers,
and a woman is only worth
the space she does not take?

and why did we listen?

who among you has never let
the blood dry on your hands?

              does the shepherd not  
                          break the lamb’s leg  
                                               so it will follow?

does the potter not
drown the clay
before shaping it?

  tell me,  
      is the lion wicked  
              for its teeth?  

     or the serpent  
                for its tongue?  

                                                      ­  if the temple is built
                                          on stolen stone,
              does the prayer still rise?

if the offering is paid for  
            in hunger,  
                    does the incense still please?  

tell me,
is the knife holy
if it never cuts?

           is the river good
    if it never drowns?

              was judas ******
              for thirty silver —
              or for the kiss?

was peter saved
for love —
or for fear?

   if i call you righteous,  
              will you thank me?

if i call you wicked,
will you deny me?

   if i tell you there is no difference,  

                    will you crucify me too?

they hold my name  
       like a coin in their palm,  
  turning it over,  
       pressing the edges,  
            but never spending its worth.  

their words —
gilded cages,
soft-spoken, silver-lined,
but rust blooms underneath.

i set the table,  
       place their names beside crystal and light,  
            but my own chair—  
                  empty,
                         my place setting,  
                                 forgotten.  

i weave threads into bridges,  
        careful, deliberate —  
              but they walk across  
                   without looking down,  
                         without ever knowing  
                                what held them up.  

i give them weight,  
          substance,  
                presence—  
                        but in their hands,  
                               i am air,  
                                      a thing to be moved through,  
                                                not held.

so i swallow my name,
unspool the thread,
clear the table.

    if they do not know my worth,  
                  then i will keep it  
                                  for myself.

the wind learns to whisper,  
                                         then aches to howl.  

                              a shadow drifts, content in its absence,
               tucked into corners where light forgets —
      weightless, wandering, unmade.
              
    the river carves itself smaller,  
          pulling away from the shore,  
                longing to be mist,  
                     to be nothing at all.  

                   but the sky splits open,  
                        spilling voices like wildfire,  
                              hands grasping,  
                                    pulling,  
                                        demanding.

the echo becomes thunder,
the ember becomes blaze —
and the tide surges forward,
craving the pull,
the crash,
the storm.

   to be everything.  
       to be felt.

but fire burns,
and rivers drown,
and echoes stretch until they fade.

so the wind quiets,
                     the shadow folds,
                                      the world sighs —

            and it is still again.

a circle,
              (closed).

arms reach,
stretch,
but never
quite
touch.

    infinity spins  
                round —  
      no end, no start,  
                  but always moving.  

everything and nothing,
twirl,
dance —
a waltz of wisp and weight.

light glows,  
              soft, gentle,  
                         (but distant).  

the edges blur —
you almost see it,
almost touch it—
                                  but then it's gone,
                                              slipping —

           through cracks.  

completion?
or is it
just a loop —

                   a never-ending spiral?

    your place is here,  
                                        (but not yet).  
                   not yet.  

  the world,  
                  the world —  
         is beyond,  
                       above,  
                   inside.  

in every step,
                       every breath —
is the world.

                   you can see it.  
                   (you almost touch it.)  
     but it’s already gone.  

(it was never there.)  

    but you are.  

      spinning.  
             forever
                   waiting.

the mirror melts.  
  no — not melts, but pools,  
         a golden spill of reflections,  
a syrup-thick mirage     clinging to my skin.    

              i step forward,    
      (or maybe backward?)    
  my footprints fizz like swallowed stars,    
                 glimmering,  
       dissolving into the amber flood.    

who am i today?

             a prism refracting selves,    
   each face a sugared echo of the last.    
          i touch my arm,    
    (but which one?)    
                my fingers bloom into moths,    

their wings dipped in honey,
their voices whispering my name
in fifty-thousand flavors.

i am not one.
    i am not many.  
            i am—    

                  (i am?)

the river laughs,  
      its voice thick with golden light,    
            dripping into my throat,    
                 seeping into my bones,    
     rewriting the marrow into something    
           sweeter.

there is a fissure  
            in the air,  

quiet like a breath held too long—
and in that silence,
i wonder if
you see
the cracks
in the way
i speak,
in the way
i bend,
in the way my skin
doesn’t fit
like it used to.

do you notice the way
i speak of “us,”
but never of “me”?

i’ve stitched my truth
in places you won’t look —
it hangs like a forgotten photograph
on the edge of a shelf,
where the light
won’t touch it,
where the air is thick
with questions
too sharp to ask.

            you ask,  
             but not really,  
             and i answer,  
                  but not fully.  

we are strangers wearing
the same names,
as if we’ve all agreed
that silence tastes better
than the truth.
so i hide behind my words,
dressing them in the
language you want to hear,
but they are hollow
like rooms
with no doors.

                 i feel the  
                     weight  
            of your eyes,  
                       but they  
                       are blind  
                 to what has shifted—  
             like a tree growing sideways,  
              the roots pulling away  
            from the earth  
                and the branches  
            reaching toward something  
                     you would never understand.  
      can you hear the hum in my chest?  
        can you feel the tremor  
               in the space between us?  
i have folded myself in half  
       so many times,  
                you can no longer  
                 see the shape of me.  

               but the fear stays,  
                 creeping in the  
             corners of the room,  
                beneath the words,  
            behind the smiles—  
      the distrust is a shadow  
           that no light can erase,  
    because every truth  
              i’ve never spoken  
                is buried in the dark,  
        and i wonder—  
    if you dig deep enough,  
          will you find me?  
          or will you leave me here,  
                    silent, hidden,  
                   waiting for a truth  
                     i cannot share?

it     starts with  
            a whisper       no — a            blink,  
the line — no, the edge— curls,
twisting like a thread that won’t stop unraveling
oh, it pulls at something deep,
something dark,
but soft—

            i am standing in the space  
where things don’t hold still,
the air bends — or is it me
bending it?
i try to speak but words bleed
out in
pieces —
broken sentences scatter, like
glass that never shatters.

"does it mean something?"
     i think it does.  
            but how could i know  
                       when time itself  
                    is        no longer  
                        the same?  
         clocks melt,  
                     but they don’t drip,  
                   they hum a sound  
       too far away to hear.  

        the sky— i think it’s still the sky—  
                  twists like a blanket  
           that never fully covers,  
   and underneath, there’s a door, but it doesn’t lead anywhere,  
   only back to a place i’ve been before,  
                  but forgotten how to leave.  

                 am i waiting?  
            or is this waiting for me?  

the mirror is smiling—
i didn’t know mirrors could smile,
or that they had teeth
but it’s there, behind me,
always behind—
trying to speak
but its words
are mine —
twisted backwards,
stretching,
thinning out like smoke.

there’s nothing to hold,
so i hold it all.

we are all half-formed,
tattered in the mouth of the sky,
footsteps scattered like secrets in sand
half-told stories,
flickering like the last candle before dawn.

where do the rivers begin?
do they unravel in the mind,
or do they stretch in the soil of forgotten stars?
your hands do not belong to you,
yet you hold them as though they are the
beginning of something
but where is the ending,
if endings are just names written on clouds?

i have been inside of nothing,
and it was vast,
expanding like a breath held too long,
too thick for the lungs of anyone to swallow.
do you remember the moment before you knew yourself?
was it light or was it dark?
perhaps it was both
perhaps it was neither.

you are a shape that never fits,
yet you force yourself into corners,
into frames,
into expectations
but the walls are always shifting,
always bending like light
through the cracked glass of your understanding.

and when you look in the mirror,
what do you see?
the reflection has no name,
no shape,
no breath.
it is you,
and not you.
it is a thing that waits to be known,
but cannot be touched.

what happens when the self forgets itself?
does it shatter, or does it simply vanish
into the silence of unspoken words,
into the places where truth never grows,
where light has no color,
where time is only a whisper
a dream that never wakes?

once, you were small enough to fit inside a whisper,
bones soft as moonlight,
fingers curled like question marks.
the world was too big to hold, so you clung to a name,
wrapped it around you like a second skin.

but nothing stays.

you learned that when your voice stretched,
when your laughter cracked open,
when the mirror started asking questions you couldn’t answer.

your hands,
look at them now
no longer tiny, no longer trembling,
big enough to shield your own eyes,
big enough to wipe your own tears.

the caterpillar never asks why it must split apart,
why the body it knew becomes a coffin,
why change feels like dying before it feels like flight.
but still, it unthreads itself into something else.
still, it breaks to become.

you will not be who you were yesterday.
you will not be who you are tomorrow.
but somewhere between the unraveling,
somewhere in the spaces left behind,
a pair of wings are forming.

the world hums in static.
your hands—are they yours?
does your voice sound the same to others as it does in your skull?
who told you that you are real, and why did you believe them?

breathe

the sun rises because it must.
because we expect it to.
because we have seen it do so before —
and so we trust the pattern.
but who winds the clock?
who decides the rhythm of the tide?
what if the moon is just pretending?

they told you:
gravity holds you down.
the past is unchangeable.
the body is the self.
(you nodded,
you swallowed,
you never checked the label)

breathe

your mind is a funhouse mirror,
stretching, warping, turning silhouettes into specters,
turning questions into monsters —
and we name them knowledge.

but if every fact was fed to you,
if every truth was a hand-me-down,
stitched together from dead men's words,
what have you ever known firsthand?

does fire burn if you don’t believe in it?

breathe

we talk in recycled language,
walk on secondhand roads,
dream in someone else’s vision.
but where does the script end?
where do you begin?

—if you peeled back the sky like wet paper,
would it bleed static or nothing at all?

what would you do with that kind of silence?

they hand you the script before you can read,
press it into your small, shaking hands —
heavy, bound in iron-spined expectations,
dog-eared by generations who never asked why.

they teach you to walk with your shoulders squared,
chin high, voice deep, footsteps firm —
a monument before you are even a man.
they teach you that softness is a sickness,
that hunger is a virtue,
that the only way to be enough
is to be more, more, more—
and never too much.

you learn to swallow silence like whiskey,
bitter but burning,
learn that weight is worn like a crown,
that fear is something you bury,
not something you name.
you learn that strength is measured
in clenched fists and bitten tongues,
in carrying the world without letting it show
in the corners of your mouth.

they call it the masculine dream—
to build, to conquer, to become,
but the dream feels more like a tomb,
more like hands that push you forward
without asking if you want to move.
you wake up every morning and pull the mask on,
the one stitched from responsibility and expectation,
the one that fits too tight against your skin.

there is no room for breaking,
no space to be small,
no air for the boy you once were —
the one who ran barefoot through the grass,
who cried without shame,
who laughed without restraint.

they hand you the script,
but no one tells you how it ends.
only that you must not falter,
only that you must not fail.

only that a man must hold himself together—
even when the cracks run deep.

the wind hums like an old song,
but no one remembers the words.
once, they rang clear
soft voices, small hands,
feet bare against the earth,
before the dust turned to ash,
before the air tasted like rust.

the old therebefore,
when the world was wide,
when time was slow,
when a morning could stretch forever
and a night held no teeth.

once, the rain kissed open palms
without burning,
once, the sky bent low enough
to whisper secrets to the quiet.
once, a child could run
without knowing where,
without knowing why,
without the weight of knowing at all.

but the world teaches.
too early, too fast, too sharp
it carves lessons into skin,
shapes innocence into something brittle,
something that bends until it breaks.

the old therebefore,
when monsters only lived under beds,
not in boardrooms, not in uniforms,
not in the quiet spaces between words.

the old therebefore,
when promises meant something,
when love did not carry conditions,
when leaving was a choice,
not an inevitability.

but the past is a house
that no longer stands,
only the bones remain,
only the dust in the empty frame of a door
that once opened to something warm.

and yet
in the hush before sleep,
in the hush before waking,
the wind hums that old song again,
soft, quiet, waiting
for someone to remember.

the men behind the curtains are pulling strings again,
their fingers slick with something thick, something oil-slick black,
something that drips between the cracks in the floorboards
and pools in the mouths of the hungry.

they speak in circles, in ribbons of smoke,
in promises spun from gold-dipped breath.
but when you hold them to the light,
the gold is flaking, peeling back,
revealing the bone-white rot beneath.

they build their cities on the backs of the drowning,
pour concrete over the open mouths,
pat the ground smooth,
call it progress.
they carve their names into marble and call it history,
but the statues still weep at night
when no one is looking.

in the streets, the people move like ghosts,
hollowed out, emptied, made small enough
to fit between the gaps in the system.
they kneel before screens that flicker like gods,
praying in silence to the ones who will never answer.
outside, the neon signs are bleeding,
electric veins pulsing against the sky,
a city built from glass and hunger,
always hungry, never full.

somewhere, a mother cradles a child
who will never grow up to own the air he breathes.
somewhere, a man counts coins that will never buy him tomorrow.
somewhere, a girl stitches up the holes in her pockets
only to find new ones tearing open in the seams.

the ocean is rising,
lapping at the edges of empire,
a quiet, patient animal waiting to take it all back.
the earth cracks open like an old wound,
swallows forests, swallows homes,
spits back the bones.
the rivers run thick with something dark,
something too toxic to name.
they tell us not to drink.
they tell us to be grateful.
they tell us the sky is still blue,
but when we look up,
all we see is smoke.

the men in suits raise their glasses,
laugh over the sound of collapsing ceilings,
shake hands with the same red fingers
that signed the death certificates.
they talk about the future in rooms too high
to hear the wailing below,
too far removed to taste the ash on their tongues.

and still, we wake.
and still, we walk.
we gather what is left,
wear our hunger like armor,
carry our sorrow like torches.
if the sky will not clear,
then let us be the fire
that burns it all down.

the classroom hums like a beehive,
buzzing with words that do not belong to me.
i sit in the back, hands folded,
trying to take up less space,
trying not to be seen.

but they see me.
they always do.
eyes like knives, voices like hands,
pushing, pulling, twisting
stretching me into something
too ugly to keep, too strange to hold.

i laugh when they laugh.
i pretend not to hear when they don’t.
my name is a song sung off-key,
passed between them like a bad joke,
a whisper behind cupped hands,
a note scrawled in the margins of a test
where the teacher will not look.

i carry their voices home in my pockets.
unfold them beneath my sheets,
let them crawl under my skin,
settle into my bones,
make a home in the quiet of my ribs.

the mirror holds me like a stranger,
mouth too stiff, eyes too empty,
body too much,
body not enough.

years pass, and their voices do not leave.
they linger, soft as breath on glass,
cold as a winter morning,
as a hand pressed firm against my back,
reminding me to shrink.

i speak, and my words sound borrowed.
i move, and i second-guess my steps.
i reach, and the world recoils —
as if i am still twelve,
still waiting for permission to exist.

the plates gleam,
white as bone,
polished smooth like they have
never known hunger.

the chairs are full,
backs straight, hands folded,
laughter soft as candlelight.

i press my fingers to the rim of a glass
and pretend my touch does not leave smudges.
pretend i am not starving for something
that will never be offered to me.

the air hums with voices i do not recognize,
language slipping through my fingers
like silk, like water, like something
that was never mine to hold.

they do not notice me.
i am a shadow at the feast,
a hunger that will not be named,
a knife laid beside an untouched plate.

the table is set,
but not for me.

roots buried deep in the soil,
twisting, clinging,
but always searching
for something just beyond reach,
as if to say,
"i belong, but never fully."

the stem stands tall,
fragile beneath its weight,
a spine bent by the wind,
swaying but never breaking,
holding the promise of growth
that feels too far to touch.

leaves unfurl in silence,
drinking the light,
but never truly satisfied,
reaching for something warmer,
something richer —
but always feeling the cold beneath.

a flower blooms,
beautiful for a moment,
and then fades
petals falling like whispered secrets,
crumbling into dust,
as though beauty was never meant to stay.

fruit hangs heavy with promise,
but when touched,
it rots —
sweetness turning bitter,
a taste of desire gone sour,
left to fall unpicked,
forgotten in the earth.

and yet,
the cycle repeats—
new roots,
new stems,
new leaves,
all reaching for the same sun,
knowing it will never shine long enough.

the air warps around me,
thick as honey,
slow as an apology that never comes.

i step in

a ghost with bones too solid,
a statue mid-topple,
something left in the sun too long.

the voices tangle like vines,
threading through spaces i don’t fit,
winding around my throat,
pulling too tight when i try to speak.

i hold my hands like they belong to someone else,
porcelain and brittle,
too smooth, too still,
waiting for someone to mold them into a shape
that makes sense.

the silence swells in my chest
a balloon too full,
a scream with no teeth,
a door that won’t open no matter how hard i knock.

i smile like it’s an answer.
i nod like i understand.

i stand in the center of the room
like a misplaced chair,
waiting for someone to sit,
waiting for someone to move me,
waiting to disappear.

the sky split open like an old wound,
light bleeding through the cracks
golden, sticky, slow.

i reached up to touch it,
let it drip onto my tongue,
let it settle in my throat like a prayer
i never learned the words to.

                    (they told me god is warmth —  
    but warmth and fire feel the same  
            when you’re too close to both.)  

the ground swayed beneath me,
soft as a mother’s voice in the dark,
but lullabies are just soft hands on your
shoulders, keeping you steady before you go.

                           so i walked,  

barefoot over cinders,
over embers that called me darling,
called me home.

and the fire
curled around my ribs like a whisper,
like fingers laced together in sanctioned halls,
like someone humming my name just low enough
that i could pretend
i imagined it.

                      (but i didn’t.)  

                           i listened.  

hellfire sings sweetly —
and i hum along.

if a tree falls and no one hears it,
does it rot slower?

does it claw at the earth, desperate to be seen
as something more than a pile of splinters?

does it hold its breath,
waiting for footsteps,
waiting for someone to count the rings
inside its ribs and say,
"this was once here."

if i carve my name into the wind
and let it drift softly into the air,
will it hold?

or will it slip between fingers,
another whisper lost before it can reach a mouth?

do you see it?

the ghost of a body still pretending to be whole,
stitched together with breath too shallow to hold,
stitched with nights that never end,
with mornings that never mean anything at all.

do you see the signs?

the moth drawn to the wick,
wings already smoldering,
the glass filling too full, too fast,
spilling over onto hands that do not flinch.

the rope hums its song in the rafters,
the blade dreams beneath the bed,
the sea sings with its mouth open,
waiting, waiting, always waiting.

and oh, if only you could see
how the body answers.

it leans over balconies,
toes curling against the lip of the abyss,
wondering how it might feel to be air,
to be a prayer half-spoken and swallowed whole.
it lingers at the water’s edge,
feeling the pull,
the old song of the tide,
the voice of god in the undertow.

this is how it happens, isn’t it?
not in fire, not in fury,
but in the slow and quiet way a candle drowns in its own wax,
in the way hands stop reaching,
in the way a name turns to dust on forgotten tongues.

why do you watch,
and why do you wait,
if not to stop it?

a simple answer, truly,

"because who can catch a shadow
when it has already learned how to slip
through the cracks?"

there is a temple of iron and glass,
its doors gaping like a beast’s maw,
breathing in disciples,
spitting them out sculpted, shining, sure.
it hums in my ribs,
soft at first, then a roar, then a tremor that unroots me.

i do not enter.

instead, i map myself in the mirror,
fingertips skimming over fault lines,
skin stretched over the wreckage of someone else's war.

i am a house that has been broken into,
windows rattling at the memory of hands
that turned me into something hollow.

they say to run,
but my legs remember pursuit.
they say to lift,
but my shoulders recall the weight of silence.
they say to push, pull, press, forge myself into more —
but all i hear is
small, smaller, gone.

inside, the air is thick,
a storm of clashing metal and breath
from giants who have never learned to fear themselves.
but i am made of glass,
fractured and fogged,
a shape too fragile to shatter again.

they say strength is safety.
but strong was never safe.
strong was fists, voices raised, doors torn from hinges.
strong meant surviving,
but never stopping.
strong meant something was always coming.
strong was never mine.

so i walk past.

i keep my hands buried in the fabric of my sleeves,
let the night swallow me whole,
tell myself tomorrow.

tomorrow, maybe.

but tonight,
i let the ghosts win.

here, beneath the shadowed bough,
you reach —
a single, red glisten,
heavy with promises.
the weight of the world lies
in your palm,
unspoken,
sweet.

but the skin, oh —
it is too thin, too thin
to withstand
the breaking.

a bite, a ripple
through the quiet,
unhinging time,
unraveling the silence
as your teeth sink
deep.

your tongue tastes
the truth of the earth —
sour, sharp,
forbidden.
and from your mouth
pours
a flood of knowing,
flooded with the weight of seasons,
lost, swallowed whole
into you.

a garden crumbles.
the roots,
now tangled,
burden you —
bent, broken beneath
the fruit you’ve borne.

and so you stand,
in the ruins of choice,
eyes wide, waiting
for the consequence
to catch up.

the apple rests still,
forgotten,
waiting
for your next
bite.

if love is a sin, let it burden me.
if love is a gift, let me cherish it.

my words slip soundless into the ground,
pooling at my feet like ripples of rainwater,
vanishing before they touch the ground.

it drips down like honeyed poison
this dysphoria of mine, a weeping
guillotine;           a mourning blade

as the gunmen circle around my fragile corpse
and my ichor seeps out my hollow vessel
my eyes will be forever trained on you
as i ask one final question:
is my love to be
paid in blood?

i.
basilisk of steel
blades of fury
brisk justice
broken pact

this life is a maid of iron,
and i am the trapped husk

how long will you be blinded by glimpses of heaven
before you realize the tainted blood of your words?

you are the stone cast
and i am the water —
as you plunge deeply
into the weak nadirs
of my bottomless soul

lest you fall asleep on the dreambound ferry
keep your eyes open for the ride forward

for the most beautiful things are along
the way and not where it ends

i am a beacon of hollow skin
of which you have neglected
with your back turned; a
grand shadow cast

it ruptures within me like a sweet abyss;
to you an undesired whole

my heart is a lie;
a false adoration for
all, but riddled in
silent sharp truths

aureate muscle of the
masculine dream, the
collective mind of many

it glows in the light
like a perfect bloom -
a grand yellow around
every young boy

i stand and watch it glow
with the dream laced
within me, but with
a shamed rose gold;

the stigma of men
is difference

seething rage through metal bars
teeth bared like razor sharp knifes
an inferno builds up inside me,
a heat red under my own skin -
as you still and watch
mouths open in folly;
a circus lion to an audience

ever-so distant, light chimes in the dark
   it whispers to me from all of this distance
      messages of a sadness evermore in null light;

there is no true spark in the darkness of night

up in a chokehold by lifes cold hands
color draining slowly from my eyes
everything now in black and white
i've been alone for so long now,
in this solitary coffin of mine

seeping through brown-riddled veins
flowing a gently fervent stream from
my wrist, a perfect red
dreams of an escape from all of this
turmoil and stress can be attained
through a single temptation from
the acquired gaze of a small blade

i live in my own mirage of countless bees
and their honey-touched compliments,
the delicate petals they bear—the
only solace i'll find in this sad
dulled hive of a recluse