I let the garden
grow around a grave.
I watered the roots
of something
that was already
waning.
On the fourth,
the moon knew
before I did.
It was enough.
Give me back that summer
I folded into my chest
like a stolen page.
The one I thought
we both kept.
But you were only
collecting ashes.
Give me back the book.
Keep the fingerprints,
the pressed flowers,
the ghosts
sleeping between the pages.
I don’t want them anymore.
They were lies
dressed in candy paper –
beautiful enough
to make the poison
feel like a blessing.
My words were sugar
falling from my mouth,
but in your hands
they became glass.
You swallowed them
and bled quietly.
And when your wounds
learned my name,
you didn’t search for a cure.
You became the wound.
You did not carry the pain –
you learned its language
and gave my name to its hunger.
You carved my reflection
into your scars
and called it justice.
My blood dripped like rain,
but it wasn’t enough;
you were still thirsty.
You wanted the same storm
that lived inside you
to root inside me.
And now my pen—
this cursed little thing—
keeps opening the same doors
I closed years ago.
I have buried us so many times,
yet somehow
we keep returning –
ghosts wearing
different memories.
Every poem is a prophecy
I accidentally write myself into.
Every line is a candle
lit at my own funeral.
My dramatic hand
keeps summoning the same ghost,
and I keep meeting it,
wearing a different face,
pretending I don’t recognize
the same story
rewritten in another wound.
