how much it hurts
to stay.
i am not fire,
or a myth —
just bones,
flesh,
still red.
i crave the black,
the stillness
the cathedral i’ve built inside it,
the quiet keeps me a mute
still i’m in pursuit.
it’s easier
to write being
than be.
i keep a knife
by my side,
in case
i blink.
no apologies.
all i’ve ever wanted
was to be seen —
it feels like
a car collision
in my chest,
every day.
my body aches,
but not from pain.
joy swallows me
though i’m not whole;
if i went tonight,
i’d die happy
alright.
isn’t that just
what the living ache for?