We bow to mirrors with shallow roots,
hold their answers like fragile sugar ash.
Inside, we are a glass of water,
no one notices the faint line of dust.
We stack opinions like brittle kindling—
the fire isn\'t ours, yet we tend it.
Our bodies shrink in their grip, twist,
a vine desperate to match their angles.
The skeleton of care is ours alone.
Knots of flesh in our throats whisper,
\"feed the world your truest hunger.\"
We smile, set the table for silence.
Each glance is a thirstless baptism,
their vision pouring over the spine,
while inside, walls of marrow answer:
\"what about the sonorous ache of self?\"