I let my shame go not with absolution but a slow unraveling, like silk rotting in rain.
No pride left to barter, no prayers to offer.
Just the hollow hush of surrender.

And so I no longer fear death.
She comes for all— with or without permission, without apology, without poetry.

I see her sometimes.
At 3 a.m.,
when the walls breathe heavier, when the mirrors turn their backs.
She peers around corners, begging for me to turn, her fingers curled
as if to beckon or scold.

She wears my face when the light slips— not quite mine,
but close enough to weep for.

She has seen me unravel, kissed the ruin in my chest, and called it holy.

I have made peace with her.
With the dark.
With the ending.
With the truth
that she waits in every quiet room— not as a thief, but as a witness.
And when she comes, I will not run.
I will not beg.
I will only say:
"I saw you. I knew you. I was not afraid."