Sometimes,

I wear his shadow on my wrist

like glass bangles —

pretty when I move,

dangerous when I stop.

The candles gutter,

a dying breath,

a final flicker of hope.

The crows watch,

impassive,

like they’ve seen 

this kind of breaking before—

a girl curling into 

the mouth of a scream

she can’t name.

My voice is a scream,

yes—

but also a lullaby

no one asked for.

In the darkness,

I am lost,

a small, 

insignificant thing,

like a note slipped between

war and forgetting.

If the gods are watching,

let them weep—

or blink,

or turn the page.

Because love,

when it leaves,

doesn’t slam the door.

It vanishes

quietly—

like a fever

breaking

in a body

no one stayed to hold.

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