i spill like ink on a torn page
veins whisper stories
i don’t remember
writing
the floor drinks my silence,
a quiet agreement between
blood and breath
who was i before the cracking?
before the splitting of skin
and thought
before my name became a stranger
i barely dare to call
the weight is a lover
i never chose—
pulling me into the hollow
of my own ribs,
where echoes curl like dying
embers,
where i used to be whole
maybe it’s time to enter
a white asylum,
surgical, controlled, safe—
where no one can find me
perhaps my demons will fly away
on black wings,
perhaps the walls will swallow
my name
fingers press together scraps,
wet with glue, wet with something red,
but the edges won’t meet,
the lines won’t hold
i am an afterthought,
i don’t deserve love
step wrong and it all shatters—
the pulse, the breath,
the brittle calm
i fake so well
how long does it take to disappear?
how long before the fire
stops pretending
to be warmth?