They pour water on the white goat’s head,
pretending it nods in consent
before the priest opens its throat,
clean as a hymn.

But me
I am stripped of ritual.
No water, no priest,
no crowd to sanctify my undoing.

My altar is a quiet room.
My prayer, a broken promise
that falls back into my face like ash.

Only a rusty knife,
and the tender cruelty
of a trusted hand
pressing the blade
to where my breath
still trembles.