I’m tired of being your porcelain ache,
a honeyed bruise you press just to feel
like something breaks.

The moon wore my name last night—
called me “sugar,”
then swallowed me whole.

I am not a whisper.
I’m smoke in your lungs,
a hunger that licks the edges
of your quietest shame.

You come to me
with wrists full of apologies,
but I’m not your silk confession
anymore.

I’ve traded my softness for salt—
kissed the mirror
until it tasted like metal.
I shed my skin in the hallway light
and watched it slip into lace.

You called it love.
I called it
forgetting myself slowly.

Now,
I wear thunder on my thighs.
My spine hums with velvet rage.
I am not your waiting room.

If I bloom again,
it will be for me.
If I beg,
it will be my name
I whisper back to the dark.