Static hums in the pillow
then the groan of seams,
a wet thread snapping between ribs.
The wound’s slow syllable.

Sheets stiffen into shrouds,
crackling down the spine.
My pulse taps Morse:
"Which death wears its twin’s name?"

First the architect. Then the nail.
Gravity dissolves at the wrist.
The chandelier suspends its fall,
reassembling—each prism
a sob swallowed by its own light.

The banished return, trailing
burnt hair and tarnished silver.
The dead rise in their finest suits,
only to melt into origami.

Curator of almosts:
the kiss that drowned at the door,
the apology lodged in my windpipe.
Even remorse unwinds here,
plucking its feathers one by one.

Dawn presses its thumb
against the window.
I let it rot.

The truest country?
This room where the wallpaper
peels into a mouth of no one.

Sleep is not escape
just the needle’s eye
where memory pulls its thread.

Dare me to wake.
The night bends, but never breathes.

You are not a product,
nor is your work.
If you are to be consumed,
let it be by your own hunger
to be who you are.

The soul’s inaction
is the price we pay
for failing to nourish
our own blooming —
even beneath sunlight,
seeds remain,
never a garden.

Peace doesn’t always mean
something good.
I’ve seen different kinda peace
some are worse than wars.

Those who choose to live
survive by daring themselves.
New sorrows, new triumphs…
old loves, and a self
that remains sincere
in a life in becoming.
And in the end,
what is His
shall also be ours,
as one.

Hope lies within reach
of those who, alone,
cross their own gates
on the highest mountains —
accessible only within.

Our journey,
a field to be cleared
with bare hands.
Calluses hold stories,
and weeds left uncut
grow wild,
until they cover the soul.

We are rescued
with every stumble.
And upon reaching the summit,
our sorrows
dissolve into the clouds.
Beneath the sunlight,
we reveal ourselves, at last,
for the very first time.

Do not rewrite the past.
No hand can erase
what time has carved
in wounded skin.

Let your oldest notebook
inscribe the first line
of a new tale —
written in fresh tears
and the sweat
of becoming
a future still unfolding.