There are thresholds that swallow their own names.
She walks them like Eurydice walking backward, trusting the dark knows where it’s going.
Something ancient lives in the spaces between.
Not a god – older than gods.
The kind that was never born, only remembered.
She tastes pomegranate and copper and the inside of oaths no one asked her to swear.
The flowers know.
The roots know.
Everything that grows downward knows.
There are seeds that don’t sprout – they just wait in the blood, patient as fate, hungry as Hades, cyclical as seasons that swallow their own return.
She doesn’t pray.
She simply recognizes the hunger as her own reflection.
The dark has many entrances.
Only one way out.
She’s forgotten which is which.
Some myths don’t end.
They just spiral.
She spirals.
Everything spirals.
