I’m the ghost in your hallway, the prayer you don’t say,
the truth you choke down with your cigarette ashtray.
I’m the crack in your mirror, the crack in your spine
every broken promise you swore was just “fine.”

I’m the last light on when the world drifts asleep,
I’m the lullaby stitched for the wolves that you keep.
I’m the poet and prophecy tangled in sheets,
I’m the calm and the chaos that slip through your teeth.

Call me a storm ,  I come when you’re dry,
I drench all your secrets, I teach you to lie.
But I’ll baptize your ruins in rivers of gold,
make art from your ashes, make legends from mold.

I’m not for the faint. I’m the pulse in your throat
the ink on your pages you wish you had wrote.
I’m the truth in your marrow, the ghost in your blood,
I’m the rose that grew wild in your garden of mud.

So don’t flinch when I break you —
I do it with grace,
I’ll peel off your mask ‘til you’re raw in the face.
You’ll thank me one day when your cage has no lock
when you stand like a lion and laugh at the clock.