Rent Unpaid.


It returns like gravity.

Not loud.

Steady.


It sits in my organs as if it owns them.

Patient.

Rent unpaid.


I wake with my lungs clenched, 

each breath a negotiation 

I never agreed to enter.


This is not longing.

It is pressure.

A cellar filling slowly with water 

while everyone upstairs says: 

you're fine, you're breathing.


I am breathing.

That is not the same as living.


Your absence has weight.

It leaves fingerprints on my ribs.


I carry you the way women carry silence 

quietly, practiced, inherited,

with a smile that convinces even doctors.


Tonight, it is not romantic.

It is dense.

Industrial.

Something used to crush stone 

into something useful.


And still,

my body betrays me.


It bends toward you 

like a compass that knows 

north is dangerous 

and goes there anyway.


If this is illness, 

then it is honest.

If this is devotion, 

it is not asking permission.




Coraline.



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