Static hums in the pillow
then the groan of seams,
a wet thread snapping between ribs.
The wound’s slow syllable.
Sheets stiffen into shrouds,
crackling down the spine.
My pulse taps Morse:
"Which death wears its twin’s name?"
First the architect. Then the nail.
Gravity dissolves at the wrist.
The chandelier suspends its fall,
reassembling—each prism
a sob swallowed by its own light.
The banished return, trailing
burnt hair and tarnished silver.
The dead rise in their finest suits,
only to melt into origami.
Curator of almosts:
the kiss that drowned at the door,
the apology lodged in my windpipe.
Even remorse unwinds here,
plucking its feathers one by one.
Dawn presses its thumb
against the window.
I let it rot.
The truest country?
This room where the wallpaper
peels into a mouth of no one.
Sleep is not escape
just the needle’s eye
where memory pulls its thread.
Dare me to wake.
The night bends, but never breathes.
Jun 10, 2025
Jun 10, 2025 at 4:40 AM UTC
Static hums in the pillow
then the groan of seams,
a wet thread snapping between ribs.
The wound’s slow syllable.
Sheets stiffen into shrouds,
crackling down the spine.
My pulse taps Morse:
"Which death wears its twin’s name?"
First the architect. Then the nail.
Gravity dissolves at the wrist.
The chandelier suspends its fall,
reassembling—each prism
a sob swallowed by its own light.
The banished return, trailing
burnt hair and tarnished silver.
The dead rise in their finest suits,
only to melt into origami.
Curator of almosts:
the kiss that drowned at the door,
the apology lodged in my windpipe.
Even remorse unwinds here,
plucking its feathers one by one.
Dawn presses its thumb
against the window.
I let it rot.
The truest country?
This room where the wallpaper
peels into a mouth of no one.
Sleep is not escape
just the needle’s eye
where memory pulls its thread.
Dare me to wake.
The night bends, but never breathes.