White as a mask, porcelain-light lies.
Black as a bruise, raw truth sighs.
I too carry two mirrored hues.
Some nights I stitch the darker muse.
Not for its ache nor bitter scars,
but how it hums like burning stars.
There, I hunger, unashamed, unbound.
There, I feast where fire is found.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 10:45 PM UTC
White as a mask, porcelain-light lies.
Black as a bruise, raw truth sighs.
I too carry two mirrored hues.
Some nights I stitch the darker muse.
Not for its ache nor bitter scars,
but how it hums like burning stars.
There, I hunger, unashamed, unbound.
There, I feast where fire is found.
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