I am tempted—
not by God, but by the hollow hum
beneath my ribs: a silent scream,
a whisper like a blade.

It strokes my skin with phantom hands,
drags its teeth along my bones,
swears it knows my name.

Come, it says, I’ll make you feel alive.
So I sit.
I let the hunger gnaw.

Where would I run?
What fool fights the wind?
I clench my fists, press keys instead—
each letter a nail in its coffin.

God, strike the match.
Let this want burn.