I stand in the hollow of night,
where silence drapes like a second skin—
thick, unmoving, a wound
stitched shut with my own hands.
The Keeper kneels beside me,
palms open, as if gathering dust.
Her ribs are a locked door, where
she keeps pain from harming others—
her voice an echo she swallowed.
Pain nests in the crook of her collarbone,
tucked away where no one can reach,
where even the wind forgets to look.
The Bleeder is near too—
a storm dragging its nails across the dark.
He spits out rage in poison-dipped syllables—
the night flinches beneath his breath.
He is all jagged, all reckless, all out—
the kind of flame that does not warm,
only burns, only consumes.
The Keeper whispers,
words soft as a bouquet of flowers—
a quiet ache—a heavy toll for just one.
The Bleeder snarls, that’s all he knows,
shaking his fists at the sky,
as if anger alone can unmake the past.
I am between them—
one foot in silence, ready to cover
one foot in fire, ready to lunge.
I feel them both inside me—
the silence that suffocates,
the fury that devours.
And I wonder—
which one will I become,
when the night finally calls my name.