The quiet underwater hum,
a lullaby of stars, a murmur—
universe breathing from its womb,
and we, small, ashen sparks, adrift,
a distant glimmer in the vast,
like sirens calling dreams awake.

She tasted ******'s slow dissolve,
a little calm beneath the tongue,
and hands that shook, still trembling words—
her fears laid bare in shaking lines,
as anxiety led her to cliff edges,
silent as the ocean’s pull.

She feels ancient, crumbling bone and sigh,
though he insists she’s still young,
but each high she chases, harder—
brown powder racing blood and heart,
the beat slipping, frantic, mad,
her gaze unraveling at the seams.

Past slips in, a nightmare child,
picking at scabs, laddered arms,
hair yanked as if by some twisted root.
And him—his weight, his need—she bends,
forgets as he pushes her close to oblivion,
as bruises bloom, a lover’s bloom.

With bite, with mark, she blooms and fades,
and finally sleeps, lips bleeding night.
Past cowers in the mirror’s face,
while demons swarm, clawing back.
The bitter pills she swallows whole,
their taste as old as ancient grief.

Beyond cracked glass, lace and shadow,
the old woman waits—her hand in Death’s.
Church bells toll the hour low,
as flames draw near and edges blur—
and in the dark, the moon hangs low,
her reawakening marked in ash and bone.