Karma's a revolver with a cherry red smile,
dancing in the dark like a ghost gone wild.
She waits under the cloak of stormy skies,
with a perfume of gunpowder, secrets, and lies.
Every sin's a bullet tucked into her dress,
Tell me, are you sure you want to place your bets?
Spinning the chamber with slow caress,
every choice calculated under your duress.
Humming sweet lullabies in the back of your mind,
she's satin and danger, all intertwined.
Pulling the trigger with a wink and a sigh,
you thought you were wanted, but you're just the high.
Ask yourself before you begin:
Can you stomach the cost of the chaos within?
She plays to collect, and so far has yet to miss a debt.
Do you really want to tempt Karma when she's actually Russian roulette?

It must’ve been the blackest of obsidian
The bleakest of tragedies
That fastened your bones together
And tainted what could’ve been yellow

And Misery must’ve had a millennium thirst
When she drank from the Styx
And spit you onto the world
To poison the ones who taste of it

Because even the flesh of the cold blooded
Will glaciate into an iron snow  
Will freeze over like rotted autumn roots
At the reticent touch of your talons  

Yes, there must have been some devilish prophecy
Spoken on the day that you ascended from the embers
The day the stars were misaligned
Off kilter and yearning to return to virtue

I’m sure that it must’ve taken a mountain of karmic cycles
Each more sinister, more corroded than the last
To shape the quiet vessel
That carries your deafening poison

Unequivocally—
Certainly—
Truthfully—

Threaded into the fabric of you was a venomous wound
And it bleeds and it bleeds and it bleeds
And you thrash and curse and wail into the nothingness
And we both know that even the nothingness pities you now

But I swear, hopeless one—
I swear I swear I swear
If not for fate
And the wickedness of your heart
I think that I would pity you too

I do not chase stars like I once did,
But some nights, I still look up.
Not for answers—just for quiet company.
That used to be enough. Maybe it is again.

I no longer dream in declarations.
No promises carved into stone.
Just laughter that lingers longer than expected,
And silences that don’t feel like absence.

Love is no longer a rescue mission,
Or a war I have to survive.
It is a rhythm, a breath I return to
Without holding it hostage.

There was a time I closed every door
To keep the ache from finding me.
Now, I leave one slightly ajar—
Just enough for light. Just enough for maybe.

I said
I have to hibernate
Before I shed this skin of mine
And she said
I know
It’s your greatest strength
And that made all the difference

There is an old, cherry oak Grandfather clock perched atop the hearth of my girlhood. In the early days, I never knew the absence of its ticking. Every room, every season, every dream— superimposed over a perpetual rhythmic symphony. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Until one day, many moons ago, I found a garden filled with garden sounds. An Earthsong played all through the summer, and as my limbs grew, so too did the space between that clock and me. So too, did the choir of humanity in my ears.

These days, I have sewn seeds in a lifetime of gardens, and I have heard each and every hymn. The harmony of the world clawed its way into my heart like a river-carved canyon and never stopped singing. But sometimes, in the stillness of the night, it fills my spirit once again, that clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. In scrapbooks and old letters. Tick. Tick. Tick. In a broken silver locket and the remnants of a poem written long ago. Tick. Tick. In the arms of the girl I love. Tick.

There is an old, cherry oak Grandfather clock perched atop the hearth of my girlhood. I am a woman now, but I listen for the ticking still.