May 6
If you must know—
know that I am not the sun.
Shadows have settled
deep in my bones,
like old tenants
who no longer pay rent
but still stay.
My thoughts turn to thorns,
curling inward
until I bleed
from the inside out.
My whispers scorch my breath,
my silences
scream in tongues
no one hears.
Night is the song I seethe—
a lullaby laced with rust,
and every dream
is a bruise
I wake to.
There is darkness
in my veins,
not the poetic kind—
but the heavy kind,
the kind that forgets
how to move,
how to feel warmth,
how to want the morning.
And some days,
I forget
how light ever
found me.
How I ever
let it in.
