Soul vibrating—like glass on the edge of shatter,
the agony of not remembering, like remorse
etched in an open book,
its pages bleeding black, each word a wound.
The broken shards of the crystal palace
weep; a smashed pomegranate in her fists
stains the heartbeat of the masked ball,
crooked smiles and silver spoons
tipped like scales.

A dead doe sprawled, limbs askew in disbelief,
raw rage pulsing through the velvet remains.
He had nicknames for me once—
they fell like brittle leaves,
like breath dissolving into silence.
His touch: a misunderstanding.
She mouths a sigh,
a war of misgivings tangled
in the brittle branches shuddering,
their spines bending in ******
as the wilderness within her blood
claws back its dominion.

There are roads, forking away
from the universe’s trembling center,
stolen sorrows carving their marks
into the flesh of the sky.
The curtain wavers; a storm rises,
seas crash in her eyes,
and she scrapes her knees on prayers
that fall empty,
arms stretched wide for the pedestals
that crumble like ash.

The itch behind blue-tinged eyelids festers.
The messenger of salvation—laughing, drowning—
sinks into the salt of her tears.
Grief is a wrap of thorns;
forgetfulness, a tender blessing.

We, the forgiven, sleep
with teeth bared against the dark.
The constellations trace fragile trails
across her skin, a map of bruises,
a forest path, the fox
sinking its teeth into the swallow.
Wild horses rise in the dust,
rosary beads and stolen conversations
slip like shadows through her fingers.

And at last, a little death:
a tremor, a closing, a quiet fall.