Lips cracked like old riverbeds,
skin paper-thin, torn at the seams.
I move through the world like a ghost in glass,
a hush beneath the sirens, unseen.

Hunger is a slow-burning fire,
a feast of absence, a quiet war.
Only the hollow-bellied know its song,
only the lost keep score.

Mama’s love was a blade in the dark,
a cipher I could never break.
I ran with the wild ones, teeth bared,
spelling my name in scars and mistakes.

But I am done with waiting,
done with the hush and the shame.
Let the dirt take me in,
let the roots whisper my name.

I was a bullet—
cold, waiting, silent steel.
But before the light fades,
his hands find me, real.

Love like a fever, love like a flood,
a martyr’s kiss, too good for my blood.
But his voice pulls me back,
his voice makes me stay,
before the night swallows me whole,
before I slip away.