The sea cracks open, a gaping wound,
pulling me under with salted hands.
The night peels back in slow-motion silence,
a whisper of footsteps that never turn back.

Charms rattle against my skin,
cold prayers for a god who never learned my name.
The bottles at my feet, their throats gaping,
mock the thirst that never drowns.

High tide, high eyes, waiting for the sting,
while you press your lips to someone else’s sin.
Go on, tear me apart, leave the pieces for the painted faces,
saints with peeling halos, judging from above.

I feel it—
the shame, the weight, the final hush,
as the tide takes me whole.