it’s 8 am, and still i lie,
beneath a pale and bleeding sky.
the morning birds don’t sound the same,
they echo like they know my name.
the curtain slits let daylight in,
like knives that slice across my skin.
i haven’t slept, i rarely do,
sleep left me when obsession grew.
the flashlight hums, it guards the door,
the music masks what came before.
the whispers bloom like mold, like rot,
they say his name, they never stop.
i feel them standing in the hall,
thin shadows pressed against the wall.
they wait for me to make a sound,
to pull me under, drag me down.
the closet groaned, its mouth agape,
until i forced its jaw to break.
it hides the things i used to be,
now locked away, but not set free.
it’s all returning, slow and sweet,
like ash that settles at my feet.
the way i used to haunt his street,
the notes i slipped where hearts might beat.
i dream of ink and blood-stained lines,
of crooked words and cryptic signs.
a mailbox yawning in the night,
my secrets slipped in silent fright.
i see his face in every sound,
his shadow stretching through the ground.
i think of knocking, just to see
if he remembers what he did to me.
i want to hurt, i want to press
my presence on him, like a hex.
not love, not hate, just something raw,
a sickness with its sharpened claw.
and still i float between the seams,
a ghost sewn through obsessive dreams.
would he read it? would he cry?
if i could fly, would he ask why?
i wonder now, as night turns pale,
if madness rides the morning mail.
i wonder what i’d dare to send,
to bring him back,
or bring his end.