She feeds her veins with quiet recklessness,
her eyes glassy portals to nothingness.
Each visit from death steals her shadow,
leaving me to hold what’s no longer her.
The air is thick with battles unspoken,
syringes scatter like fallen declarations.
No anthem to play for these soldiers,
only silence where their purpose expired.
Her skin clings to the memory of life,
a feral echo of who she had been.
Was she the storm, or the storm her?
Something broke, but no one heard it.
Each overdose stands like a funeral pyre,
its smoke clouding what love remains.
I mourn her not in her death but her living,
a ghost who still breathes but won’t be saved.
How do you cradle what never reaches back?
How do you love where the soul has fled?