Let’s walk the wreckage barefoot,  
through memories sharp as shattered psalms—  
each bone a prayer, each scar a chorus  
echoing grief in broken qualms.  

I’ve worn collapse like second skin,  
threaded my name through rusted seams,  
carried silence in the sockets  
where I once stored softer dreams.  

Damage done, repeated scripture,  
spoken in a stranger’s tongue.  
Every wound a familiar fixture—  
every verse I’ve bitten from.  

My reflection changes nightly,  
ghosted in the glass it leaves.  
Not a stranger—just unlikely,  
just a skin I’m forced to grieve.  

I’d sail myself to nowhere lands,  
trade these thoughts for phantom seas,  
but the tide still grips with bone-split hands  
and drags me back through memories.  

These edges—thick with visual lies,  
mirrors dressed in stolen light—  
carve new truths into my eyes  
and steal the name I’d try to write.  

So don’t mistake my silence  
for surrender or for sleep—  
I’m the hymn beneath the violence,  
I’m the secret shadows keep.  

Directionless but moving still,  
with every fracture in my spine,  
toward some echo none can fill,  
toward a self that once was mine.