This house
hollow as sorrow—
air clings thick to the walls,
mute as tombstones.
Time—a cold stone,
lurks in the corners,
its face blind with grief—
its hands turning to dust.

I tell myself,
just one more day,
to stop trying to chase the dark away,
like a moth drawn to fire,
its wings flirting with ruin.
The floorboards wail beneath my steps.

Ghosts press against my neck—
hungry—wanting to feed on my weakness.
I try, in vain, seal myself shut.
Every sigh—
a blade drawn across a wound,
deeper than rust,
burning bitterly.

I am here—
fighting off shadows,
counting time in an hourglass,
its throat choked with wet sand,
waiting for the tide to rise
and carry me back to myself—

I’m not going to make it.

Hope is thin—
a tattered silk in a storm.
Still, I hang on.
There is something about being stung,
that pulls me back—
again and again,
to this aching, quiet fight
for more.