It comes with teeth —
sharp and glinting beneath an implacable smile,
sinking in slow,
pressing firmly against bone
until breath feels too thin
and mornings blur into shadows.
It waits beneath my tongue,
a bitter taste I can’t spit out,
curling through my chest,
tight as wire,
soft as fog.
It knows how to be silent,
until it doesn’t.
Until it’s ripping through the walls,
scratching at the seams,
a low growl in the hollow of my ribs.
And the talons —
God, the talons —
hooked deep in muscle and marrow,
dragging me down
to the cold floor of my mind,
where light flickers thin as breath
and silence hums like static.
It pulls —
slow and steady,
through hours that fold into nothing,
through days that taste like dust.
I let it.
Sometimes it’s easier that way.
But there’s always a sliver of air,
a crack of light under the door.
And somehow,
somehow —
my hands find it.
The teeth leave scars.
The talons bruise deep.
But I rise,
aching,
raw,
breathless —
still here.