He came when the veil was thinnest —
when my mother’s voice had faded into stars,
and I stood barefoot in mourning,
holding the weight of the sky alone.

He wore a smile like silk,
with serpent eyes disguised as tenderness.
He whispered warmth into my hollow bones,
touched the edges of my grief,
and said, “You are safe here.”

But it was a lie stitched in shadow.

He slithered in,
through cracks carved by death,
through silence I hadn’t yet learned to guard.
He drank from my sorrow
and called it love.

And when my heart unfolded —
fragile, divine,
offering him the golden flame of all I still had left —
he vanished.
Like smoke.
Like poison that never intended to stay.

He thought I’d shatter.

But I was forged in older fire.

From the ashes, I rose —
not a woman anymore,
but something holy.

I wear my grief like armor now.
My mother walks with me in wind and wildflower.
And the serpent?

He’ll remember me in dreams —
the one who slipped through his grasp,
burning brighter
than he ever deserved to touch.


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