She puked the night onto the trembling pavement,

a bitter river, spilling the weight of stars.

The waves whispered, soft and endless, to her ear,

Their rhythm not unlike his voice—low, insincere.

She let them take her, a shadow slipping from the shore,

No rage, no plea; she was past the point of more.

Drowning felt gentle—his absence had hurt far more.

The air shimmered, alive with its own trembling pulse,
and I felt—yes, I felt—the veil tear, thin as gossamer,
wet with dew and dreams.
The mushrooms, small and unassuming, lay in my palm
like a secret too heavy for words.
I ate them,
and the world unfolded,
petal by petal,
a flower blooming backward into itself.

It was not the self I sought—
not at first.
No, it was the taste,
the salt of knowing that clung to my tongue,
sharp and metallic,
like the tang of stars fallen into the sea.
The ground, steady and loyal all my life,
buckled and sighed,
and I slipped,
I drowned—
oh, willingly I drowned!—
into the land of fevered dreams,
where shadows wear faces
and light bends to its own whims.

The Self—what is it but a vapor,
a mist rolling out to sea,
always receding,
always somewhere else?
I reached for it—
a hand outstretched, trembling,
fingers brushing its edge—
but it dissolved,
scattering into the sky,
a thousand tiny stars.
"Come," said the stars,
each one a voice,
each one a wound.

Time folded in on itself,
its moments dripping like candle wax,
melting, melting—
and there was Truth,
naked as a child,
unflinching.
She beckoned,
her eyes sharp as glass,
her mouth full of salt.
"Do you dare?" she asked.
"Do you dare taste what cannot be untasted?"

And I—oh, I—
drank her down,
her bitterness, her fire,
until my tongue burned with her name.
What was the Self then,
but a shadow cast by flame?
A ghost dancing in the ash of knowing?

Still, I search.
Still, I wander beneath the sky,
its stars like open wounds,
its silence like a hymn.
And when I find myself—if I find myself—
will I recognize the face?
Or will I merely see
the salt-streaked reflection
of the sea I once drowned in?

Head bowed, she lingered in the doorway,
her shadow stretched like a sigh,
the child she once was slipping away,
a whisper unraveling in the dark.
She stood there, her silence heavy,
a stone dropped into the well of time.

Later, she lay naked,
her body a poem written on rags,
the stolen fabric of her dreams
stitched with the trembling light of stars.
Before her, the wall—
a blank canvas of memory,
white as the breath of the moon.

Her destiny was a gold thread,
meant to wind through the arms of a lover,
their limbs a forest of quiet promises.
The petals around them bled like hearts,
the leaves fell like old songs,
and time, that ghostly wind,
whispered them into stillness.

The demons came,
their wings dark as midnight oceans,
their voices soft as a lover’s hand.
But she stood, her heart
a blooming wound, her forgiveness
a river running deep beneath the earth.
She split herself open like fruit,
the seeds of her past scattering
into the soil of her new self.

She became fire,
a wild and untamed flame,
liquid heat coursing through her veins.
Her voice, once caged,
rose up, fierce and unashamed,
an echo that shook the sky.

She was a ruby falling,
a drop of blood into the abyss of sleep,
her footsteps dissolving into the earth.
Hope died quietly,
its wings clipped by the raven’s cry.
The world crashed around her,
its colors breaking like waves against the cliffs.
And still she stood,
her body the pulse of the universe,
her soul the ache of eternity.

Would you still love me if the night spoke my sin,

if the ash of my mistake clung to our bodies,

if the wind carried whispers of my guilt

and our skin bore the scent of shattered stars—

would your hands still gather me from the void?