the room does not speak
it doesnt need to
its silence folds me like linen
set aside for mourning
that never quite began
the ghosts are tired of me
or maybe i have stopped
feeding them
this is the dark that asks nothing
not the hunter’s dark
but the hush of snow before it lands
the pause before it knows it's falling
i sit here
shaped but unscripted
an hourglass with no hour
a form memory forgot to fill in
i am empty
yes
but without ache
just
space
what pours in
may be music
or mist
or the bones of a future i havent been asked to carry yet
i do not know what i am to be
but i am what is ready

i was born in the burn
1995 flame, a war within
ghosts pacing the halls before i ever knew
how to carry a name
or lie like a man
i learned young how to build a face
that people could love
so they would never look past it
that mask fit too well
i forgot what skin felt like
my fathers sins were seeds in my blood
planted in silence
harvested in screams behind walls
that cracked before i could fix them
i swore i wouldnt become him
i didnt
i became the fallout
theres a psalm in my right hand
a loaded habit in my left
and every prayer tastes like rust now
i say the right words sometimes
other times i just stare at the ceiling
and wait for the judgment
or the mercy
whichever lands first
i still see her, my friend
ten years gone and somehow
still closer than God some days
i carry her like a debt
that never stops charging interest
my faith is a battlefield
where angels bleed in silence
and demons grin in old familiar faces
mostly mine
twisted mines
i drop my values like broken weapons
pick them up again
pretend theyre clean
pretend im clean
but ive counted the weight of my deeds
on both sides of the scale
and even if it tips my way
i know thats not how grace works
thats just math
and math wont save me
ive stopped praying to be perfect
i just beg to be real
i still want to be holy
but God i dont know how
to stop being me long enough
to let You in
if theres mercy
if theres still blood on the altar for the hypocrite
if grace can bleed this deep
then let it bleed
ive traveled so far to be here again
maybe crawling back is the only kind of worship
ive ever truly known

why do i weep for what i should condemn
why does mercy pull tears from eyes too used to burning
why do i shudder when the hammer falls
on those who once raised it
high
over my own head
why does His kindness undo me
when i am not clean
when i have rehearsed rejection
like a psalm
why do i tremble
when the hand still reaches
jerusalem still stoning the prophets
america still bowing at her own altars
and i
still learning how to love
those who hate
still hoping for beauty
where nothing but dust grows
should i not rejoice when justice is done
and yet
i mourn
i mourn the fire and the ashes
the ruin and the ruiners
as if some echo in me remembers
eden
and how we all fell at once
thorns cannot yield figs
brambles do not feed the hungry
but oh
even the cursed ground drinks rain
so what am i
bitterroot
or beloved
a cracked jar that still catches light
or a shadow wearing grace like borrowed skin
is longing holiness
or just hunger
am i crooked
or just reaching
still
i pray
for the ones who will not pray
and for the One who still waits
in mercy
on the hill we raised to **** His Anointed
the hill where He stays

i dont talk to my friends anymore
the weeds grew fast in the yard
not wildflowers, not beauty
just things that live when you forgot to care
the grass climbs over old footsteps
the porch remembers laughter
i barely recall
now it creaks under my weight like a question
i wont answer
the growth of who I am
crawled over who I was
i cant see him clearly now
just a blur in the mirror
before i brush my teeth
before i remember how much he smiled
without trying
i dont like this change
but i need it
like bitter tea when youre sick
like silence after too much noise
so i sit
in the silent house of myself
curtains drawn, dishes undone
i keep the lights dim
so i wont see the empty places
where people once stood
i dont talk
because so many already left
and the echo of "how are you?"
never lands right anymore
i dont talk
because im tired of answering
tired of explaining
why my laugh feels borrowed
and my eyes always say more than i let my mouth admit
i dont talk
because i dont mind feelings
i just hate the ones i have
they crawl through me like ivy
slow and consuming
theyve made a garden i cant walk through
only sit inside
watching what ive become
grow tall over what i was
and so
i dont talk
not to them
not to you
only to the quiet
only to the weeds

keen eyes, fever-bright in shadowed hallways
trace the tremble of a lover's breath
a tryst wrapped tight in velvet lies
soft silk around the scent of death
this face i wear is porcelain
kissed by time and powdered grace
a mask of calm, of quiet care
yet fissures bloom across its face
flakes fall like ash from burnt regret
old wounds stir beneath the gloss
where memory is sharp and wet
and every smile conceals a loss
behind the grin, the beast still sleeps
its ribcage hewn of brittle ache
the carnivore, with broken teeth
still dreams of all that it could take
dormant, yes, but never dead
its hunger is a steady thrum
it watches through the cracks i dread
and waits for weakness yet to come
it scents affection like spilled blood
the warmth of touch, the trust, the skin
and salivates, in shadows mute
at softness that it might begin
to rip, to claim, to hollow out
to chew through hearts like marrowed bone
and i, the host, can barely shout
above the growl thats not my own
so i pray not to god, but to the dark
that only one hand finds the reins
for if it seizes full control
ill drown beneath its fanged domain
my prey... my sweet, oblivious prey
you see the face, you kiss the lips
but you dont know how near you lay
to the thing with blood along its hips
and i, too tired to be your cage
too frayed to be your tethered wall
can only hope this love you wage
wont be the reason that you fall

they go down still
into the dark
where no light lives
but the spark of rage
faces smeared with the soot of belief
hands blistered
by clenching so long
to lies shaped like truths
sold cheap by masters
who never once bled
they mine hate
like coal
digging deeper
with every grudge
every slogan carved into the walls
like it's scripture
they call it pride
they call it country
they call it righteous
but it coats their lungs
it chokes the air from their days
until their words rasp and clank
with bitterness
that no water can cleanse
no light can reach
and still they swing
their pickaxes of blame
their spades of suspicion
into the very seams
that poison them
the dust hangs heavy
in the hollows of their chest
like fiery sermons
it settles in their veins
like silt in a still creek
they die slowly
but certainly
not for gold
not for bread
but for their blessed illusion
of having struck something
their master watches
from a tower of clean air
counting each cough
as profit
and the miners call him savior
and the deeper they go
the darker it gets
and still
they do not stop

they cried for barabbas
and barabbas they received
but his sword turned inward
and their cities wept in ash
they spit on the healer
and praised the destroyer
and found their dreams buried
beneath fallen temple stones
they called for justice
but mocked the just one
and justice came
not as they hoped, but as they deserved
they marched for peace
but crowned the violent
and so the earth groaned
and the heavens turned away