this MOUTHLESS LIFE,
a shard of glass pressed against the tongue
until the blood tastes like silence.

a word is a wound already,
soft as the pillow over the face,
soft as the grave dirt that smothers the scream.

The heart falls like a suicide note
torn from the wrist,
falling into the lap of someone
who will never read it.

a slice of belief-skin –

Belief as skin, flayed,
offered up like a sacrament
to a heart too tender to hold it.

I could not cry,
but my lover took these tears.
The true theft —
not the body, not the breath,
but the last salt proof
that I was still alive enough to weep.

i hate my heart / the forever prison of my soul
forgetting there was a key

:: 01.27.2026 ::