quiet.
that's all I can feel in this prison
of golden statues screaming with crumbling glory and
iron bars that wrestle against
the sweat of my palms,
holding them until my knuckles are gasping for air.

silent.
all of this is poured into nothing,
into nothing
into nothing
until time has dribbled to a stop and my voice
forgets how to produce sounds.

bare.
there is an understanding in myself and the way my mind dances
across blank pages and empty stares as the flames erupt around me.

hollow.
I am at the apex of a storm that has been brewing since the day I first breathed.
I am a warrior constructed of cardboard and leftover compliments and hard-earned grins.
I am the dove that is stained with blackening ink and my
hands are tainted with the glass shards of a church window
digging deep into my palms until all I see in their reflection is
your face framed with silver thread and the
ghost of myself
lifeless
in your embrace.