“I Will Love The Light For It Shows Me The Way, Yet I Will Endure The Darkness Because It Shows Me

Blacklit Sky

Iam ridiculously jealous at the moments

you give to her instead of me

and that

your hand will never reach mine

except through

my mind

my shadow and yours

collide

not by chance

but by some forgotten vow

etched in stardust

and sealed in sleep

our eyes look up the same sky

over and over again

untill the orbs meet

for the first time

as if the heavens are tired

of holding our longing

my velvet fire embers

and your hues of ocean

dancing across the sky

that never noticed

between the void

and the constellations

above the world

entwined

for a lifetime

I was the moth.

Not blind,

but aching.

I was not deceived by the flame,

I longed for its ruin.

To be undone in that heat,

to burn knowing,

was a worship beyond reason.

A thousand lifetimes in darkness

could never equal

one death

in such light.

-Cyrus K.

I was birthed from the torn stomach of night,

drenched not in milk,

but in the black bile of forgotten prayers.

The world spat me out

as a creature too ruined to be loved,

a wound with legs,

a scream with teeth.

Hope;

was a bone thrown to a starving dog.

I gnawed it until my mouth filled with splinters,

bled until my tongue knew only the taste

of broken promises.

I grew eating hunger,

drinking the venom of people's hate,

wearing the bruises of their disgust

like a second, rotting skin.

The colour of my flesh...

an open invitation to cruelty,

a crime I could never peel from my bones.

And when I crawled through the sewage of my years,

a thing barely breathing,

I thought love would be the knife to cut me free.

Instead,

it was another dagger...

this one twisted slowly into my throat

while I watched her eyes,

soft and shining,

for someone else.

Tell me, God,

what is more merciful:

to be born blind to love,

or to be shown its light

only to have it ripped from your hands

by fingers colder than the grave?

If there is a God of agony,

He carved His name into my ribs with rusted nails,

He strung my tendons into a lyre

so He could pluck songs of suffering

from my every step.

At night, I lie rotting,

a feast for the worms of memory,

as my dreams decompose around me,

the stench of what might have been,

thick enough to choke a corpse.

I feel decay threading through my blood,

I hear my hope

crackling like dry leaves under the boots

of things that never loved me.

My soul,

no, not even a soul,

a shattered lantern,

spilling its last flicker into a pit

where even maggots refuse to crawl.

And still,

some putrid, twitching part of me

reaches out,

fingers broken and blackened,

begging the silent stars

for something,

anything,

that does not end

in rot.

-Cyrus K.

I hold my brother on my lap,

I don't tell him to calm,

Or hush his sobs,

He does that himself.

I cannot stop his world ending,

But I am his sister, and as long as I stay,

He has a part of his world still there.

She was never mine.

Not even in dreams,

where shadows lie softer than truth.

But I love her

like a noose loves the neck...

tight, desperate,

aching to belong.

She moved through me

like winter in old bones,

slow, cruel,

reminding me I’m still alive

only to feel the cold.

I gave her a love

like a blade gives mercy;

sharp,

faithful,

and never asked for.

She was the war I bled for

before the first shot was fired.

And I...

I was the wound

that stayed open

long after she was gone.

-Cyrus K.

She rests in the arms

of a man who cannot feel her storm,

while I drown

in the flood she left behind.

I feel like a spider,

strung with longing,

spin webs from torn ribs

to catch the ghost of her smile.

Her laugh...

a blade I swallow each morning,

thanking it

for the pain.

I would tear the stars

from the throat of the heavens

just to watch her eyes

glimmer one more time.

My love is not gentle,

it is blood and bone and burning rope.

It is sleepless nights

stitched with screams

no one hears.

This is love,

where I am the pyre

and she,

the flame

that never stays

but never dies.

-Cyrus K.

I am not trapped.

I am abandoned.

There is no fight left in my limbs

no fire left in my chest

Only the heavy, sinking knowledge

that I have lived too long

in a body that was never mine to keep.

I do not recognize this face

these hands,

this voice that cracks like old pavement

every time I try to speak

I used to scream for help.

Now I don’t even bother whispering

No one listens to a woman

who dug her own grave.

its so hard to believe someone could love me. im always always too much or too little. never enough.