The dark is dear unto me—its breath is still, wide,
A hush where the phantoms do glide.
There dwell the beasts, in caverned hush they keep,
Yet the shadows cradle me, and lull to sleep.

They veil the grotesque, veil what eyes might dread,
And draw a mourning curtain round my head.
O blessed gloom, thou kind and gentle friend,
That asks no truth, no broken soul to mend.

Yet see! The light with lances comes to strip—
It lays me bare with every golden whip.
No sin, no sorrow dares to hide its face
When morning’s blade unseams my secret place.

The sun, austere, doth cast my form in stone,
And shows me parts I thought were not my own.
A mirror cruel, this radiant blaze I flee,
For what it shows—I scarce believe is me.

Though light may warm, and verdant fields restore,
It floods the room where I kept shut the door.
And truth, though fine, may pierce with cruel delight—
So let me rest, unseen, beneath the night.

I am now a natural gem,
A mix of murk and clear,
Different colors or shades.

I am now a healed piece of earth,
A patch of glow over the ashes of disease,
Diverse as I breathe in fresh air.

I was built like a bridge.
Not to be admired,
but to be walked upon,
to carry others over waters they feared to face.

They call it strength,
this stillness,
this groaning under weight without collapse.
But the rust knows better.
The bolts know better.

No one asks a bridge if it wants to be a boat.
To float, to drift,
to follow the current instead of bracing against it.
But I do. I dream of drift.

Still, I stretch myself across their storms,
a path for everyone but me.

i was born wax,
shaped not for warmth, but for giving it,
a candle too willing to burn
just to brighten someone else’s dinner table.

they never asked where the fire came from,
only if the lighting was soft enough
to keep the mood gentle.

my wick was too short for longevity,
but i stretched it anyway,
one inch of flame for every mile of their comfort.
i quieted my flicker so no one saw
how much it hurt to glow.

they praised my stillness.
they never heard the sizzle
of my silence melting me down.

You burn with pride, a blazing crown,
And cast your glory halfway down.
You offer me a borrowed gleam,
To wear your light, to live your dream.

They call it love, that golden gleam,
But I am tired of your dream.
For what is love if I must be
A paler shape that mimics thee?

You rise and all the world takes note;
They write you songs, they learn by rote.
But me? They only praise my face
When I am bathed in your embrace.

I’ve played that role, taking on your fire,
But I am no echo of your bold desire.
It’s this, I’d rather not be bright
If I must steal another’s light.

Let others ache to share your flame,
To chase your warmth, to speak your name,
But none of them see what is true:
That all I am is made from you.

So keep your gold. I’ll take the gray.
I want to dim, to drift, and to decay.
To be myself alone, though small and plain.
A hollow stone, without your chain.

Let planets spin around your throne,
But I would rather be unknown.
Do not shine for me, bright one.
I want no light that comes from sun.

They say, “The sea is full of fish to find,”
As if my hands were built to cast a net,
But love has never anchored down my mind,
No bait I’ve thrown, no catch I’d seek or let

I, a lone sailor, drift without a line,
No bait, no hook, no wish to ever snare
The saltwind sings of long-lost valentine,
Yet I just crave the quiet open air

The stars don’t ask whom I have kissed or kept,
The moon does not demand a hand to hold
And I, alone, have wept the way I’ve wept,
Not for lost love, but tales I won’t be told

And if you ask why I don’t chase or wish,
I’m simply just allergic to the fish