Illness blooms like nightshade,
its roots deep in my imagination.
I map his crevices—
each scar, each shadow a continent—
and commit them to memory.
Creation demands sacrifice,
they said,
so I buried my soul in the garden,
fingers carving half-moons
into the skin of my palm.

Chemical courage
slipped into my veins,
a cocktail of desires and leaps of faith.
Adaptation meant suicidal thoughts—
not fought, but tamed,
like wild animals pacing
the edges of my brain.

The candles melted,
grieving their own light,
smiles curling away
from the heat of mourning.
Each dawn, a quiet betrayal:
submission instead of rebellion.

I want the rush of blood again,
the roar of adrenaline
speaking in colors only I understand,
a language universal in its madness.
But now, there is only silence.
Black coffee, white memories—
a **** of the past,
stripped bare of its poetry.