the glorious stillness
was madness shaking in quietude.
the heartaches,
the resonance,
the cold —
they have but lingered
like a stifling tale suspended in the air.
I have long left the pages in the dark,
sinking in frozen floors.
and for a thousand moons,
the dust and rust have kept
trailing through this skin
like thick gasoline all seeping
down the hair follicles,
down the messy cracks,
down my silenced grief.
oh, the drowning shivers have worn me thin
long enough my unspoken misery
has already set me on fire.
and the burns were loud.
the words now crackle, disturb
and bleed out then muted histories.
I know, this calm after an aged storm
was a frigid poem
perched on my open wound.
now, I long only for a flame
that awaits familiar disasters,
like a lost, unloving moth
coming home to its warmth,
to its unforgiving sparks —
those reckless, ruinous lights
that let the fractures split again
and give colors to frozen pulses.
so let it hurt. let it bleed, honey.
let the pain carve
its burns beneath my ribs,
each truthful ache
a deafening scream let loose —
such a graceful reminder
that I am still alive enough
to feel the breaking.
to hear my harsh breathing.
and to know enough
that I am still here.