Press the blade into my flesh,
watch me bleed,
watch me fall to my knees.
Never had my love for breath been more
a desperate yet quiet lullaby in the final exhale,
each drop a ruby clock ticking down
the seconds I once wasted.
The stone floor drinks my story,
warm and slow, persistent
a scarlet confession no priest could absolve.
Pain blooms like red winter roses,
sharp petals kissing flesh,
and in that white-hot clarity
I see every dawn I ignored,
every laugh I let die unborn,
every hand I never reached for.
My lungs rebel, greedy now,
hoarding the thin, stale air
as if it were gold poured from heaven.
How strange it is
to court the dark and find the light
only when it flickers out.
Intention slips, slick with truth.
I kneel before the altar of almost,
whispering apologies to a body
that still fights to stay.
If some shallow mercy comes,
let it wear the shape of morning.
Let it lift these trembling hands
before the final curtain falls.
For in this moment of unraveling,
I have never loved the fragile thread of life
with such ferocious,
breaking need.